CALIFORNIA 
STORY  BOOK 


09 


COPYRIGHT  1909 

BY 
THE  ENGLISH  CLUB 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


Printed  by 

nlep^aplor 

Sap;Francisco 


THE  STAFF 


MARGUERITE  OGDEN,  '10,  Editor 
SARA  ASHBY/10  FRANCIS  STEEL,  '10 

MARGARET  HIZAR,  '10  LEILA  HIBBARD,  '10 

IRVING  MARKWART,  '10      EDNA  HIGGINS,  '11 


BUSINESS    MANAGERS 
EARLE  SNELL,  '09  NAT  SCHMULOWITZ,  '10 


Introduction 


project  of  the  collection  and  pub- 
h'cation  of  California  stories  was  first 
conceived  by  English  Club  in  the 
fall  of  1908  and  a  committee  was 
appointed  to  follow  up  the  rather  vague  sug- 
gestion, to  read  over  and  select,  from  the  files  of 
the  Occident  and  the  University  of  California 
Magazine,  stories,  college  stories  if  possible,  wor- 
thy of  publication  in  a  representative  college 
book.  The  work  of  the  committee  proved  very 
soon  the  unfeasibility  of  this  first  idea,  and  the 
scope  of  the  prospective  collection  was  widened, 
at  the  request  of  some  of  the  contributors  them- 
selves, to  include  work  done  after  graduation. 

A  short  story  contest,  primarily  in  the  interests 
of  the  book,  was  opened  by  the  Club  at  the  end 
of  the  spring  semester,  and  the  three  stories  rank- 
ing first  in  the  contest  are  included  in  the  col- 
lection. "Yesterday—A  Toast,"  by  Sara  Can- 
terbury Ashby,  '10;  "Values,"  by  Marguerite  Og- 


INTRODUCTION 

den,  '10,  and  "Bernice,  Patrice  and  Clarice,"  by 
Elizabeth  Florence  Young,  '10. 

In  the  final  selection,  the  staff  and  the  judges 
have  dwelt  on  the  essentially  literary  merit  of  the 
stories  while  still  keeping  in  mind,  as  a  desirable 
element,  the  general  tenor  of  western  college 
atmosphere.  It  is  felt,  too,  that  the  appear- 
ance of  some  of  the  stories  in  periodicals  at  vari- 
ous times,  as  well  as  of  the  three  stories,  "The 
History  of  Chop-Suey  and  Fan-Tan,"  by  Gurden 
Edwards,  '07;  "Phil,"  by  Christina  Krysto,  '09, 
and  "Steve,"  by  Francis  Steel,  '10,  taken  from  the 
California  Occident,  will  in  no  way  lessen  the 
interest  taken  in  a  book  representative  of  the 
best  in  short  story  writing  of  California  grad- 
uates and  students. 

Acknowledgements  are  due  the  judges  in  the 
short  story  contest,  Professor  C.  Wells,  Dr. 
George  E.  Smithson,  '03;  Richard  Walton 
Tulley,  '01,  Christina  Krysto,  '09,  and  Francis 
Steel,  '10;  to  Miss  Grace  Dickover,  of  Santa 
Barbara,  for  the  marginal  illustrations  used 
throughout  the  book,  and  to  Mr.  Porter  Garnet 
for  his  invaluable  assistance  in  the  selection  of  the 
title-page  drawing  and  in  the  supervision  of  the 
make-up  of  the  book. 

M.  O. 

Berkeley,  California. 
Nov.  26,  1909. 


CONTENTS 


.MATER  GLORIA 

By  Isabel  McReynolds  Gray,  '07 

THE  PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK i 

By  Frank  Norris,  '94 

With   acknowledgment  to   the   "Century." 

YESTERDAY  —  A  TOAST 20 

By  Sara  Ashby,  '10 

Awarded    first    place    in    English    Club    Story    Con- 
test,   1907. 

THE  IDEALIST 30 

By  James  Hopper,  '98 

With    acknowledgment    to    the    "Saturday    Evening 
Post." 

-    THE  HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN     54 
By  Gur den  Edwards,  'of 

With   acknowledgment   to   the   "Overland    Monthly." 

PHIL 72 

By  Christina  Krysto,  'op 


CONTENTS 

THE  RECORD  QUARTER 85   v 

By  Grace  Torrey,  '97 

With   acknowledgment   to    the   "Popular    Magazine." 

VALUES    102 

By  Marguerite  Ogden,  '  10 

ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 118 

£3;  Richard  Walton  Tully,  '01 

With    acknowledgment    to    the    "Saturday    Evening 
Post." 

STEVE 141 

By  Francis  Steel,  '10 

BUCK  DU  SPAIN 150 

By  Helen  Duncan  Queen,  '07 

With    acknowledgment    to    the    "Atlantic    Monthly." 

BERNICE,  PATRICE  AND  CLARICE 161 

By  Elizabeth  F.  Young,  '  10 

BILLY-TOG  169 

By  Abby  L.  Waterman,  '04 

THE  SPOTTED  DAWG 183 

By  Eleanor  Gates,  '01 

With    acknowledgment   to    Doubleday,    Page   &    Co., 
New  York. 


Mater  Gloria 


learned  a  song  when  the  world  was 

young. 

Flowers  of  the  heart  and  altar  fires. 
Winds   of  the   earth  and   sea   gave 

tongue, 

And  down  the  world  our  prayer  was  flung  — 
"Gloria,  Mater  !  —  Our  desires  !  " 

We  dreamed  a  dream  when  the  day  was  new. 

Bud  and  blossom  and  leaping  flame. 

The  promise  came  that  the  dream  was  true  — 

We  sang  on  every  wind  that  blew, 

"Mater!    Gloria!    Thine  the  fame  !" 

Some  work  we  do  in  the  western  light. 

Withered  leaf  and  fitful  gleam. 

At  the  threshold  of  the  night 

We  raise  the  hymn  that  is  thy  right  — 

"Gloria,  Mater,  for  the  dream  !  " 


The  Passing  of  Cock-Eye 
Blacklock 


m'  son,"  observed  Bunt  about 
half  an  hour  after  supper,  "if  your 
provender  has  shook  down  comfort- 
able  by  now,  we  might  as  well  jar 
loose  and  be  moving  along  out  yonder." 

We  left  the  fire  and  moved  toward  the  hobbled 
ponies,  Bunt  complaining  of  the  quality  of  the 
outfit's  meals.  "Cown  in  the  Panamint  coun- 
try," he  growled,  "we  had  a  Chink  that  was  a 
sure  frying-pan  expert;  but  this  Dago — my 
word!  That  ain't  victuals,  that  supper.  That's 
just  a'  ingenious  device  for  removing  superflu- 
ous appetite.  Next  time  I  assimilate  nutriment  in 
this  camp  I'm  sure  going  to  take  chloroform 
beforehand.  Careful  to  draw  your  cinch  tight 
on  that  pinto  bronc'  of  yours.  She  always  swells 
up  same  as  a  horned  toad  soon  as  you  begin  to 
saddle  up." 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

We  rode  from  the  circle  of  the  campfire's  light 
and  out  upon  the  desert.  It  was  Bunt's  turn  to 
ride  the  herd  that  night,  and  I  had  volunteered  to 
bear  him  company. 

Bunt  was  one  of  a  fast-disappearing  type.  He 
knew  his  West  as  the  Cockney  knows  his  Picca- 
dilly. He  had  mined  with  and  for  Ralston,  had 
soldiered  with  Crook,  had  turned  cards  in  a  faro 
game  at  Laredo,  and  had  known  the  Apache  Kid. 
He  had  fifteen  separate  and  different  times  driven 
the  herds  from  Texas  to  Dodge  City,  in  the  good 
old,  rare  old,  wild  old  days  when  Dodge  was  the 
headquarters  for  the  cattle  trade,  and  as  near  to 
heaven  as  the  cow-boy  cared  to  get.  He  had  seen 
the  end  of  gold  and  the  end  of  the  buffalo,  the 
beginning  of  cattle,  the  beginning  of  wheat,  and 
the  spreading  of  the  barbed-wire  fence,  that,  in 
the  end,  will  take  from  him  his  occupation  and 
his  revolver,  his  chaparejos  and  his  usefulness, 
his  lariat  and  his  reason  for  being.  He  had  seen 
the  rise  of  a  new  period,  the  successive  stages  of 
which,  singularly  enough,  tally  exactly  with  the 
progress  of  our  own  world-civilization:  first  the 
nomad  and  hunter,  then  the  herder,  next  and  last 
the  husbandman.  He  had  passed  the  mid-mark 
of  his  life.  His  mustache  was  gray.  He  had 
four  friends — his  horse,  his  pistol,  a  teamster  in 
the  Indian  Territory  Panhandle  named  Skinny, 
and  me. 

The  herd — I  suppose  all  told  there  were  some 
[2] 


PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK 

two  thousand  head — we  found  not  far  from  the 
water-hole.  We  relieved  the  other  watch  and 
took  up  our  night's  vigil.  It  was  about  nine 
o'clock.  The  night  was  fine,  calm.  There  was 
no  cloud.  Toward  the  middle  watches  one  could 
expect  a  moon.  But  the  stars,  the  stars!  In 
Idaho,  on  those  lonely  reaches  of  desert  and 
range,  where  the  shadow  of  the  sun  by  day  and 
the  courses  of  the  constellations  by  night  are  the 
only  things  that  move,  these  stars  are  a  different 
matter  from  those  bleared  pin-points  of  the  city 
after  dark,  seen  through  dust  and  smoke  and  the 
glare  of  electrics  and  the  hot  haze  of  fire-signs. 
On  such  a  night  as  that  when  I  rode  the  herd 
with  Bunt  anything  might  have  happened;  one 
could  have  believed  in  fairies  then,  and  in  the 
buffalo-ghost,  and  in  all  the  weirds  of  the  crazi- 
est Apache  "Messiah"  that  ever  made  medicine. 

One  remembered  astronomy  and  the  "measure- 
less distances"  and  the  showy  problems,  includ- 
ing the  rapid  moving  of  a  ray  of  light  and  the 
long  years  of  its  travel  between  star  and  star,  and 
smiled  incredulously.  Why,  the  stars  were  just 
above  our  heads,  were  not  much  higher  than  the 
flat-topped  hills  that  barred  the  horizons.  Venus 
was  a  yellow  lamp  hung  in  a  tree;  Mars  a  red 
lantern  in  a  clock-tower.  One  listened  instinc- 
tively for  the  tramp  of  the  constellations.  Orion, 
Cassiopeia,  and  Ursa  Major  marched  to  and  fro 
[3] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

on  the  vault  like  cohorts  of  legionaries,  seemingly 
within  call  of  our  voices,  and  all  without  a 
sound. 

But  beneath  these  quiet  heavens  the  earth  dis- 
engaged multitudinous  sounds — small  sounds, 
minimized  as  it  were  by  the  muffling  of  the  night. 
Now  it  was  the  yap  of  a  coyote  leagues  away; 
now  the  snapping  of  a  twig  in  the  sage-brush; 
now  the  mysterious,  indefinable  stir  of  the  heat- 
ridden  land  cooling  under  the  night.  But  more 
often  it  was  the  confused  murmur  of  the  herd 
itself — the  click  of  a  horn,  the  friction  of  heavy 
bodies,  a  stamp  of  a  hoof,  with  now  and  then 
the  low,  complaining  note  of  a  cow  with  calf,  or 
the  subdued  noise  of  a  steer  as  it  lay  down,  first 
lurching  to  the  knees,  then  rolling  clumsily  upon 
the  haunch,  with  a  long,  stertorous  breath  of 
satisfaction. 

Slowly  at  Indian  trot  we  encircled  the  herd. 
Earlier  in  the  evening  a  prairie-wolf  had  pulled 
down  a  calf,  and  the  beasts  were  still  restless. 
Little  eddies  of  nervousness  at  long  intervals 
developed  here  and  there  in  the  mass — eddies 
that  not  impossibly  might  widen  at  any  time  with 
perilous  quickness  to  the  maelstrom  of  the  stam- 
pede. So  as  he  rode,  Bunt  sang  to  these  great 
brutes,  literally  to  put  them  to  sleep — sang  an 
old  grandmother's  song,  with  all  the  quaint  modu- 
lations of  sixty,  seventy  a  hundred  years  ago: 
[4] 


PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK 

With  her  ogling  winks 

And  hobbling  blinks, 

Her  quizzing  glass, 

Her  one  eye  idle, 
Oh,  she  loved  a  bold  dragoon, 

With  his  broadsword,  saddle,  bridle. 

Whack,  fol-de-rol! 

I  remembered  that  song.  My  grandmother — so 
they  tell  me — used  to  sing  it  in  Carolina,  in  the 
thirties,  accompanying  herself  on  a  harp,  if  you 
please : 

Oh,  she  loved  a  bold  dragoon, 

With  his  broadsword,  saddle,  bridle. 
It  was  in  Charleston,  I  remembered,  and  the 
slave-ships  used  to  discharge  there  in  those  days. 
My  grandmother  had  sung  it  then  to  her  beaux ; 
officers  they  were ;  no  wonder  she  chose  it, — "Oh, 
she  loved  a  bold  dragoon," — and  now  I  heard  it 
sung  on  an  Idaho  cattle-range  to  quiet  two  thou- 
sand restless  steers. 

Our  talk,  at  first,  after  the  cattle  had  quieted 
down,  ran  upon  all  manner  of  subjects.  It  is 
astonishing  to  note  what  strange  things  men  will 
talk  about  at  night  and  in  a  solitude.  That  night 
we  covered  religion,  of  course,  astronomy,  love- 
affairs,  horses,  travel,  history,  poker,  photog- 
raphy, basket-making,  and  the  Darwinian  theory. 
But  at  last  inevitably  we  came  back  to  cattle  and 
the  pleasures  and  dangers  of  riding  the  herd. 
"I  rode  herd  once  in  Nevada,"  remarked  Bunt, 
[5] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

"and  I  was  caught  into  a  blizzard,  and  I  was  sure 
freezing  to  death.  Got  to  where  I  couldn't  keep 
my  eyes  open,  I  was  that  sleepy.  Tell  you  what 
I  did.  Had  some  eating-tobacco  along,  and  I'd 
chew  it  a  spell,  then  rub  the  juice  into  my  eyes. 
Kept  it  up  all  night.  Blame  near  blinded  me,  but 
I  come  through.  Me  and  another  man  named 
Blacklock — Cock-eye  Blacklock  we  called  him, 
by  reason  of  his  having  one  eye  that  was  some  out 
o'  line.  Cock-eye  sure  ought  to  have  got  it  that 
night,  for  he  went  bad  afterward,  and  did  a  heap 
of  killing  before  he  did  get  it.  He  was  a  bad  man 
for  sure,  and  the  way  he  died  is  a  story  in  itself." 
There  was  a  long  pause.  The  ponies  jogged  on. 
Rounding  on  the  herd,  we  turned  southward. 

"He  did  'get  it'  finally,  you  say,"  I  prompted. 

"He  certainly  did,"  said  Blunt,  "and  the  story 
of  it  is  what  a  man  with  a'  imaginary  mind  like 
you  ought  to  make  into  one  of  your  friction  tales." 

"Is  it  about  a  treasure  ?  "  I  asked  with  appre- 
hension. For  ever  since  I  once  made  a  tale  (of 
friction)  out  of  one  of  Bunt's  stories  of  real  life, 
he  has  been  ambitious  for  me  to  write  another, 
and  is  forever  suggesting  motifs  which  invariably 
— I  say  invariably — imply  the  discovery  of  great 
treasures.  With  him  fictitious  literature  must  al- 
ways turn  upon  the  discovery  of  hidden  wealth. 

"No,"  said  he,  "it  ain't  about  no  treasure,  but 
just  about  the  origin,  hist'ry,  and  development — 
and  subsequent  decease — of  as  mean  a  Greaser 
[6] 


PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK 

as  ever  stole  stock,  which  his  name  was  Cock-eye 
Blacklock. 

"You  see,  this  same  Blacklock  went  bad  about 
two  summers  after  our  meet-up  with  the  bliz- 
zard.  He  worked  down  Yuma  way  and  over  into 
New  Mexico,  where  he  picks  up  with  a  sure- 
thing  gambler,  and  the  two  begins  to  devastate 
the  population.  They  do  say  when  he  and  his 
running  mate  got  good  and  through  with  that 
part  of  the  Land  of  the  Brave,  men  used  to  go 
round  trading  guns  for  commissary,  and  clothes 
for  ponies,  and  cigars  for  whisky  and  such. 
There  just  wasn't  any  money  left  anywhere. 
Those  sharps  had  drawed  the  landscape  clean. 
Some  one  found  a  dollar  in  a  floor-crack  in  a 
saloon,  and  the  bar-keep'  gave  him  a  gallon  of 
forty-rod  for  it  and  used  to  keep  it  in  a  box  for 
exhibition,  and  the  crowd  would  get  around 
it  and  paw  it  over  and  say :  'My !  my !  Whatever 
in  the  world  is  this  extremely  cu-roos  coin  ? ' 

"Then  Blacklock  cuts  loose  from  his  running 
mate,  and  plays  a  lone  hand  through  Arizona 
and  Nevada,  up  as  far  as  Reno  again,  and  there 
he  stacks  up  against  a  kid — a  little  tenderfoot 
kid  so  new  he  ain't  cracked  the  green  paint  off 
him — and  skins  him.  And  the  kid,  being  foolish 
and  impulsive-like,  pulls  out  a  pea-shooter.  It 
was  a  twenty-two"  said  Blunt,  solemnly.  "Yes, 
the  kid  was  just  that  pore,  pathetic  kind  to  carry  a 
dinky  twenty-two,  and  with  the  tears  runnin' 
[7] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

down  his  cheeks  begins  to  talk  tall.  Now  what 
does  that  Cock-eye  do?  Why,  that  pore  kid  that 
he  had  skinned  couldnt  'a'  hurt  him  with  his  pore 
little  bric-a-brac.  Does  Cock-eye  take  his  little 
parlor  ornament  away  from  him,  and  spank  him, 
and  tell  him  to  go  home  ?  No,  he  never.  The 
kid's  little  tin  pop-shooter  explodes  right  in  his 
hand  before  he  can  crook  his  forefinger  twice, 
and  while  he's  a-wondering  what-all  has  hap- 
pened, Cock-eye  gets  his  two  guns  on  him,  slow 
and  deliberate-like,  mind  you,  and  throws  forty- 
eights  into  him  till  he  ain't  worth  shooting  at  no 
more.  Murders  him  like  the  mud-eating,  horse- 
thieving  snake  of  a  Greaser  that  he  is ;  but  being 
within  the  law,  the  kid  drawing  on  him  first,  he 
don't  stretch  hemp  the  way  he  should. 

"Well,  fin'ly  this  Blacklock  blows  into  a  min- 
ing-camp in  Placer  County,  California,  where  I'm 
chuck-tending  on  the  night  shift.  This  here  camp 
is  maybe  four  miles  across  the  divide  from  Iowa 
Hill,  and  it  sure  is  named  a  cu-roos  name,  which 
it  is  Why-not.  They  is  a  barn  contiguous,  where 
the  mine  horses  are  kep',  and,  blame  me !  if  there 
ain't  a  weathercock  on  top  of  that  same, — a  gol- 
den trotting-horse,- — upside  down.  When  the 
stranger  an'  pilgrim  comes  in,  says  he  first  off: 
'Why'n  snakes  they  got  that  weathercock  horse 
upside  down — why  ?  '  says  he.  'Why-not/  says 
you,  and  the  drinks  is  on  the  pilgrim. 

"That  all  went  very  lovely  till  some  gesabe 
[8] 


PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK 

opens  up  a  placer  drift  on  the  far  side  the  divide, 
starts  a  rival  camp,  an'  names  her  Because.  The 
boss  gets  mad  at  that  and  rights  up  the  weather- 
cock, and  renames  the  camp  Ophir,  and  you  don't 
work  no  more  pilgrims. 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Cock-eye  drifts  into 
Why-not  and  begins  diffusing  trouble.  He  skins 
some  of  the  boys  in  the  hotel  over  in  town,  and 
a  big  row  comes  of  it,  and  one  of  the  bead-rock 
cleaners  cuts  loose  with  both  guns.  Nobody  hurt 
but  a  quarter-breed,  who  loses  a'  eye.  But  the 
marshal  don't  stand  for  no  short-card  men,  an' 
closes  Cock-eye  up  some  prompt.  Him  being 
forced  to  give  the  boys  back  their  money  is  busted 
an*  can't  get  away  from  camp.  To  raise  some 
wind  he  begins  depredating.  He  robs  a  pore 
half-breed  of  a  cayuse,  and  shoots  up  a  Chink 
who's  panning  tailings,  and  generally,  and  vari- 
ously becomes  too  pronounced,  till  he's  run  outen 
camp.  He's  sure  stony-broke,  not  being  able  to 
turn  a  card  because  of  the  marshal.  So  he  goes 
to  live  in  a'  ole  cabin  up  by  the  mine  ditch,  and 
sits  there  doing  a  heap  o'  thinking,  and  hatch- 
ing trouble  like  a'  ole  he-hen. 

"Well,  now,  with  that  deporting  of  Cock-eye 
comes  his  turn  of  bad  luck,  and  it  sure  winds  his 
clock  up  with  a  loud  report.  I've  narrated  spe- 
cial of  the  scope  and  range  of  this  'ere  Blacklock, 
so  as  you'll  understand  why  it  was  expedient  and 
desirable  that  he  should  up  an'  die.  You  see,  he 
[9] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

always  managed  with  all  his  killings  and  robbings 
and  general  and  sundry  flimflamming  to  be  just 
within  the  law.  And  if  anybody  took  a  notion  to 
shoot  him  up,  why,  his  luck  saw  him  through, 
and  the  other  man's  shooting-iron  missed  fire,  or 
exploded,  or  threw  wild,  or  such  like,  till  it 
seemed  as  if  he  sure  did  bear  a  charmed  life ;  and 
so  he  did  till  a  pore  yeller  tamale  of  a  fool  dog 
did  for  him  what  the  law  of  the  land  couldn't  do. 
Yes,  sir,  a  fool  dog,  a  pup,  a  blame  yeller  pup 
named  Sloppy  Weather,  did  for  Cock-eye  Black- 
lock,  sporting  character,  three-card-monte  man, 
sure-thing  sharp,  killer,  and  general  bedeviler. 

"You  see,  it  was  this  way.  Over  in  American 
Canon,  some  five  mile  maybe  back  of  the  mine, 
they  was  a  creek  called  the  American  River,  and 
it  was  sure  chock-a-block  full  of  trouts.  The 
boss  used  for  to  go  over  there  with  a  dinky  fish- 
pole  like  a  buggy-whip  about  once  a  week,  and 
scout  that  stream  for  fish  and  bring  back  a  basket- 
ful. He  was  sure  keen  on  it,  and  had  bought 
some  kind  of  privilege  or  other,  so  as  he  could 
keep  other  people  off. 

"Well,  I  used  to  go  along  with  him  to  pack  the 
truck,  and  one  Saturday,  about  a  month  after 
Cock-eye  had  been  run  outen  camp,  we  hiked  up 
over  the  divide,  and  went  for  to  round  up  a  bunch 
o'  trouts.  When  we  got  to  the  river  there  was  a 
mess  for  your  life.  Say,  that  river  was  full  of 
dead  trouts,  floating  atop  the  water;  and  they 
[10] 


PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK 

was  some  even  on  the  bank.  Not  a  scratch  on 
'em ;  just  dead.  The  boss  had  the  papsy-lals.  I 
never  did  see  a  man  so  rip-r'aring,  snorting  mad. 
7  hadn't  a  guess  about  what  we  were  up  against, 
but  he  knew,  and  he  showed  down.  He  said 
somebody  had  been  shooting  the  river  for  fish  to 
sell  down  Sacramento  way  to  the  market.  A 
mean  trick;  kill  more  fish  in  one  shoot  than  you 
can  possibly  pack. 

"Well,  we  didn't  do  much  fishing  that  day, — 
couldn't  get  a  bite  for  that  matter, — and  took  off 
home  about  noon  to  talk  it  over.  You  see,  the 
boss,  in  buying  the  privileges  or  such  for  that 
creek,  had  made  himself  responsible  to  the  fish 
commissioners  of  the  State,  and  't  wasn't  a  week 
before  they  were  after  him,  camping  on  his  trail 
incessant,  and  wanting  to  know  how  about  it. 
The  boss  was  some  worried,  because  the  fish  were 
being  killed  right  along,  and  the  commission  was 
making  him  weary  of  living.  Twicet  afterward 
we  prospected  along  that  river  and  found  the 
same  lot  of  dead  fish.  We  even  put  a  guard 
there,  but  it  didn't  do  no  manner  of  good. 

"It's  the  boss  who  first  suspicions  Cock-eye. 
But  it  don't  take  no  seventh  daughter  of  no  sev- 
enth daughter  to  trace  trouble  where  Blacklock's 
about.  He  sudden  shows  up  in  town  with  a 
bunch  of  simoleons,  buying  bacon  and  tin  cows* 
and  such  provender,  and  generally  giving  it  away 

*Condensed   milk. 

[ii] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

that  he's  come  into  money.  The  boss,  who's 
watching  his  movements  sharp,  says  to  me  one 
day: 

"  'Bunt,  the  storm-center  of  this  here  low  area 
is  a  man  with  a  cock-eye,  an'  I'll  back  that  play 
with  a  paint  horse  against  a  paper  dime.' 

"  'No  takers,'  says  I.  'Dirty  work  and  a  cock- 
eyed man  are  two  heels  of  the  same  mule.' " 

"  'Which  it's  a-kicking  of  me  in  the  stum- 
mick  frequent  and  painful,'  he  remarks,  plenty 
wrathful. 

"  'On  general  principles,'  I  said,  'it's  a  royal 
flush  to  a  pair  of  deuces  as  how  this  Blacklock 
bird  ought  to  stop  a  heap  of  lead,  and  I  know 
the  man  to  throw  it.  He's  the  only  brother  of 
my  sister,  and  tends  chuck  in  a  placer  mine. 
How  about  if  I  take  a  day  off  and  drop  round  to 
his  cabin  and  interview  him  on  the  fleetin'  and 
unstable  nature  of  human  life  ? ' 

"But  the  boss  wouldn't  hear  of  that. 

"  'No,'  says  he ;  'that's  not  the  bluff  to  back  in 
this  game.  You  an'  me  an'  Mary-go-round' — 
that  was  what  we  called  the  marshal,  him  being 
so  much  all  over  the  country — 'you  an'  me  an' 
Mary-go-round  will  have  to  stock  a  sure-thing 
deck  against  that  maverick.' 

"So  the  three  of  us  gets  together  an'  has  a 
talky-talk,  an'  we  lays  it  out  as  how  Cock-eye 
must  be  watched  and  caught  red-handed. 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you,  keeping  case  on  that 
[12] 


PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK 

Greaser  sure  did  lack  a  certain  indefinable  charm. 
We  tried  him  at  sun-up,  an'  again  at  sundown, 
an'  nights,  too,  laying  in  the  chaparral  an'  tar- 
weed,  an'  scouting  up  an'  down  that  blame  river, 
till  we  were  sore.  We  built  surreptitious  a  lot  of 
shooting-boxes  up  in  trees  on  the  far  side  of  the 
canon,  overlooking  certain  an'  sundry  pools  in 
the  river  where  Cock-eye  would  be  likely  to  pur- 
sue operations,  an'  we  took  turns  watching.  I'll 
be  a  Chink  if  that  bad  egg  didn't  put  it  on  us 
same  as  previous,  an'  we'd  find  new-killed  fish  all 
the  time.  I  tell  you  we  were  fitchered;  and  it 
got  on  the  boss's  nerves.  The  commission  began 
to  talk  of  withdrawing  the  privilege,  an'  it  was 
up  to  him  to  make  good  or  pass  the  deal.  We 
knew  Blacklock  was  shooting  the  river,  y'  see, 
but  we  didn't  have  no  evidence.  Y'  see,  being 
shut  off  from  card-sharping,  he  was  up  against 
it,  and  so  took  to  pot-hunting  to  get  along.  It 
was  as  plain  as  red  paint. 

"Well,  things  went  along  sort  of  catch-as- 
catch-can  like  this  for  maybe  three  weeks,  the 
Greaser  shooting  fish  regular,  an'  the  boss  b'iling 
with  rage,  and  laying  plans  to  call  his  hand,  and 
getting  bluffed  out  every  deal. 

"And  right  here  I  got  to  interrupt,  to  talk  some 
about  the  pup  dog  Sloppy  Weather.  If  he  hadn't 
got  caught  up  into  this  Blacklock  game,  no  one'd 
ever  thought  enough  about  him  to  so  much  as 
kick  him.  But  after  it  was  all  over,  we  began  to 
[13] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

remember  this  same  Sloppy  an'  to  recall  what  he 
was;  no  big  job.  He  was  just  a  worthless  fool 
pup,  yeller  at  that,  everybody's  dog,  that  just 
hung  around  camp,  grinning  and  giggling  and 
playing  the  goat,  as  half-grown  dogs  will.  He 
used  to  go  along  with  the  car-boys  when  they 
went  swimmin'  in  the  resevoy,  an'  dash  along  in 
an'  yell  an'  splash  round  just  to  show  off.  He 
thought  it  was  a  keen  stunt  to  get  some  gesabe 
to  throw  a  stick  in  the  resevoy  so's  he  could  pad- 
dle out  after  it.  They'd  trained  him  always  to 
bring  it  back  an'  fetch  it  to  whichever  party 
throwed  it.  He'd  give  it  up  when  he'd  retrieved 
it,  an  yell  to  have  it  throwed  again.  That  was  his 
idea  of  fun — just  like  a  fool  pup. 

"Well,  one  day  this  Sloppy  Weather  is  off 
chasing  jack-rabbits,  an'  don't  come  home.  No- 
body thinks  anything  about  that,  nor  even  notices 
it.  But  we  afterward  finds  out  that  he'd  met  up 
with  Blacklock  that  day,  an'  stopped  to  visit  with 
him — sorry  day  for  Cock-eye.  Now  it  was  the 
very  next  day  after  this  that  Mary-go-round  an' 
the  boss  plans  another  scout.  I'm  to  go,  too.  It 
was  a  Wednesday,  an'  we  lay  it  out  that  the  Cock- 
eye would  prob'ly  shoot  that  day,  so's  to  get  his 
fish  down  to  the  railroad  Thursday,  so  they'd 
reach  Sacramento  Friday — fish-day,  see.  It 
wasn't  much  to  go  by,  but  it  was  the  high  card  in 
our  hand,  an'  we  allowed  to  draw  to  it. 

"We  left  Why-not  afore  daybreak,  an'  worked 
[14] 


PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK 

over  into  the  canon  about  sun-up.  They  was  one 
big  pool  we  hadn't  covered  for  some  time,  an' 
we  made  out  we'd  watch  that.  So  we  worked 
down  to  it,  an'  dumb  up  into  our  trees,  an'  set 
out  to  keep  guard. 

"In  about  an  hour  we  heard  a  shoot  some  mile 
or  so  up  creek.  They's  no  mistaking  dynamite, 
leastways  not  to  miners,  an'  we  knew  that  shoot 
was  dynamite  an'  nothing  else.  The  Cock-eye 
was  at  work,  an'  we  shook  hands  all  round.  Then 
pretty  soon  a  fish  or  so  began  to  go  by — big  fel- 
lows, some  of  'em,  dead  an'  floatin',  with  their 
eyes  popped  'way  out  same  as  knobs — sure  sign 
they'd  been  shot. 

"The  boss  took  and  grit  his  teeth  when  he  see 
a  three-pounder  go  by,  an'  made  remarks  about 
Blacklock. 

"  "Sh ! '  says  Mary-go-round,  sudden-like. 
'Listen !' 

"We  turned  ear  down  the  wind,  an'  sure  there 
was  the  sound  of  some  one  scrabbling  along  the 
boulders  by  the  riverside.  Then  we  heard  a  pup 
yap. 

"  'That's  our  man,'  whispers  the  boss. 

"For  a  long  time  we  thought  Cock-eye  had 
quit  for  the  day  an'  had  coppered  us  again,  but 
byne-by  we  heard  the  manzanita  crack  on  the  far 
side  the  canon,  an'  there  at  last  we  see  Blacklock 
working  down  toward  the  pool,  Sloppy  Weather 
[15] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

following  an'  yapping  and  cayoodling  just  as  a 
fool  dog  will. 

"Blacklock  comes  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
water  quiet-like.  He  lays  his  big  scoop-net  an' 
his  sack — we  can  see  it  half  full  already — down 
behind  a  boulder,  and  takes  a  good  squinting  look 
all  round,  and  listens  maybe  twenty  minutes,  he 
's  that  cute,  same  's  a  coyote  stealing  sheep.  We 
lies  low  an'  says  nothing,  fear  he  might  see  the 
leaves  move. 

"Then  byne-by  he  takes  his  stick  of  dynamite 
out  his  hip  pocket — he  was  just  that  reckless 
kind  to  carry  it  that  way — an'  ties  it  careful  to  a 
couple  of  stones  he  finds  handy.  Then  he  lights 
the  fuse  an'  heaves  her  into  the  drink,  an'  just 
there  's  where  Cock-eye  makes  the  mistake  of  his 
life.  He  ain't  tied  the  rocks  tight  enough,  an' 
the  loop  slips  off  just  as  he  swings  back  his 
arm,  the  stones  drop  straight  down  by  his  feet, 
an'  the  stick  of  dynamite  whirls  out  right  enough 
into  the  pool. 

"Then  the  funny  business  begins. 

"Blacklock  ain't  made  no  note  of  Sloppy 
Weather,  who's  been  sizing  up  the  whole  game 
an'  watchin'  for  the  stick.  'Soon  as  Cock-eye 
heaves  the  dynamite  into  the  water,  off  goes  the 
pup  after  it,  just  as  he  'd  been  taught  to  do  by  the 
car-boys. 

"'Hey,  you  fool  dog!'  yells  Blacklock. 

"A  lot  that  pup  cares.  He  heads  out  for  that 
[16] 


PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK 

stick  of  dynamite  same  as  if  for  a  veal  cutlet, 
reaches  it,  grabs  hold  of  it,  an'  starts  back  for 
shore,  with  the  fuse  sputtering  like  hot  grease. 
Blacklock  heaves  rocks  at  him  like  one  possessed, 
capering  an'  dancing ;  but  the  pup  comes  right  on. 
The  Cock-eye  can't  stand  it  no  longer,  but  lines 
out.  But  the  pup  's  got  to  shore  an'  takes  after 
him.  Sure,  why  not?  He  thinks  it  's  all  part 
of  the  game.  Takes  after  Cock-eye,  running  to 
beat  a'  express,  while  we-all  whoops  and  yells  an' 
nearly  falls  out  the  trees  for  laffing.  Hi !  Cock- 
eye did  scratch  gravel  for  sure.  But  't  ain't  no 
manner  of  use.  He  can't  run  through  that  rough 
ground  like  Sloppy  Weather,  an'  that  fool  pup 
comes  a-cavortin'  along,  jumpin'  up  against  him, 
an'  him  a-kickin'  him  away,  an'  r'arin',  an' 
dancin',  an'  shakin'  his  fists,  an*  the  more  he 
r'ars,  the  more  fun  the  pup  thinks  it  is.  But 
all  at  once  something  big  happens,  an'  the  whole 
bank  of  the  canon  opens  out  like  a  big  wave, 
and  slops  over  into  the  pool,  and  the  air  is  full 
of  trees  an'  rocks  and  cart-loads  of  dirt  an'  dogs 
and  Blacklocks  and  rivers  an'  smoke  an'  fire 
generally.  The  boss  got  a  clod  o'  river-mud  spang 
in  the  eye,  an'  went  off  his  limb  like  's  he  was 
trying  to  bust  a  bucking  bronc'  an'  could  n't ;  and 
or  Mary-go-round  was  shooting  off  his  gun  on 
general  principles,  glarin'  round  wild-eyed  an* 
like  as  if  he  saw  a'  Injun  devil. 

"When  the  smoke  had  cleared  away  an'  the 
[17] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

trees  and  rocks  quit  falling,  we  dumb  down  from 
our  places  an'  started  in  to  look  for  Blacklock. 
We  found  a  good  deal  of  him,  but  they  was- 
n't hide  nor  hair  left  of  Sloppy  Weather.  We 
did  n't  have  to  dig  no  grave  either.  They  was  a 
big  enough  hole  in  the  ground  to  bury  a  horse  an' 
wagon,  let  alone  Cock-eye.  So  we  planted  him 
there,  an'  put  up  a  board,  an'  wrote  on  it : 

Here  lies  most 

of 

C.  BLACKLOCK, 

who  died  of  a' 

entangling  alliance  with 

a 

stick  of  dynamite. 

Moral:   A  hook  and  line  is  good  enough 
fish-tackle  for  any  honest  man. 

"That  there  board  lasted  for  two  years,  till 
the  freshet  of  '82,  when  the  American  River — 
Hello,  there  's  the  sun !" 

All  in  a  minute  the  night  seemed  to  have  closed 
up  like  a  great  book.  The  east  flamed  roseate. 
The  air  was  cold,  nimble.  Some  of  the  sage- 
brush bore  a  thin  rime  of  frost.  The  herd, 
aroused,  the  dew  glistening  on  flank  and  horn, 
were  chewing  the  first  cud  of  the  day,  and  in 
twos  and  threes  moving  toward  the  water-hole 
for  the  morning's  drink.  Far  off  toward  the 
camp  the  breakfast  fire  sent  a  shaft  of  blue  smoke 
[18] 


PASSING  OF  COCK-EYE  BLACKLOCK 

straight  into  the  moveless  air.  A  jack-rabbit, 
with  erect  ears,  limped  from  a  sage-brush  just 
out  of  pistol-shot  and  regarded  us  a  moment, 
his  nose  wrinkling  and  trembling.  By  the  time 
that  Bunt  and  I,  putting  our  ponies  to  a  canter, 
had  pulled  up  by  the  camp  of  the  Bar-circle-Z 
outfit,  another  day  had  begun  in  Idaho. 


19] 


Yesterday — A  Toast 

"Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
To-day  of  past  Regrets  and  Future  Fears: 
To-morrow!  —  why,  To-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself  with  Yesterday's  Sev'n  thousand  Years." 

URRAY  has  just  rung  me  up  to  ask 
if  he  might  call  for  us  with  his 
machine  this  afternoon." 

Marjorie  looked  up  from  her  sew- 
ing to  where  Elizabeth  stood  in  the  doorway — 
"What  did  you  say?" 

"Oh,  I  told  him  yes,"  answered  Elizabeth,  her 
color  a  little  heightened.      "What  else  could  I 
say?     You  and  he  planned  the  affair  together. 
It's  only  natural  that  he  should  come  for  us." 
Her  aunt  threw  a  glance  of  inquiry  over  the 
billowy  blue  mull  in  her  lap  —  "Won't  people 
talk?"  but  Elizabeth  had  stooped  to  pick  up  a 
piece  of  lace  from  the  floor  and  did  not  answer. 
Majorie  jabbed  her  needle  into  the  white  cam- 
bric— "What  nonsense,  it's  perfectly    all    right. 
[20] 


YESTERDAY— A  TOAST 

Everybody  knows  it's  a  class  reunion  and  that 
we're  all  old  friends." 

"Everybody  knows,  too,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Marston,  "that  he  sent  his  wife  and  baby  to  Mill 
Valley  yesterday." 

"That's  the  way  with  these  gossipy  towns," 
flashed  Marjorie,  breaking  her  thread  with  a 
vicious  jerk,  "always  attending  to  other  people's 
business !" 

Elizabeth's  head  bent  lower  over  her  work, 
her  hair  shading  her  face.  "I  suppose  it  is  rash," 
she  said,  "but  it  was  so  long  ago,  nobody  remem- 
bers." 

Her  aunt  compressed  her  lips.  "How  can 
you  afford  to  leave  your  sewing?"  Both  girls 
looked  up  reproachfully. 

"Now  Auntie,  we'll  only  be  gone  an  hour  or 
two  and  it  would  never  do  for  us  not  to  be 
there." 

Mrs.  Marston  said  no  more,  but  a  little  anxious 
look  crept  into  her  face. 

Exactly  at  three  the  girls  heard  the  auto's  shud- 
dering stop  at  their  door  and  then  Murray's 
quick  bound  upon  the  veranda. 

Elizabeth  stood  before  the  mirror  in  her  bed- 
room noting  critically  the  effect  of  a  new  pink 
gown.  It  was  becoming  and  she  could  not  help 
seeing  that  the  rose-flush  in  her  cheeks  was  as 
delicate  and  her  hair  as  dusky  black  as  when 
she  was  eighteen.  She  caught  her  breath.  That 
[21] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

was  a  long  time  ago — it  were  better  not  to  think 
of  it — and  yet — .  She  began  moving  restlessly 
around  the  room  and  stopped  in  front  of  an  open 
window.  A  warm  breeze  sent  the  curtains 
swirling  over  her  head  and  then  streaming  far 
out  the  window.  In  the  garden  below  the  flowers 
drooped  in  the  hot  afternoon  sun  and  the  faint 
odor  of  roses  floated  up  and  wrapped  her  round. 
As  in  a  dream  she  heard  Marjorie  calling  to  her 
and  she  did  not  answer.  Then  a  quick  tap  at  the 
door  and  Majorie  came  in  with  a  rustle  of  crisp 
muslin  skirts  and  a  disapproving,  "Why,  Eliza- 
beth, not  ready !  Murray's  waiting  for  us — where 
is  your  hat?  We  musn't  be  late." 

Elizabeth  turned  from  the  window  and  began 
mechanically  to  straighten  the  dresser.  "I  think 
I'll  not  go,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  Mar- 
jorie. 

Her  cousin's  patience  gave  way.  "Any  one 
would  think  you  were  sixteen."  She  stamped 
her  foot.  "What  possible  reason  have  you  for 
not  going?  You  can't  leave  me  in  the  lurch 
this  way  at  the  last  minute,  here's  your  hat, 
hurry !  "  and  Elizabeth,  hardly  knowing  what  she 
did,  found  herself  putting  on  her  hat  and  gloves. 
She  gave  one  last  glance  at  the  mirror  before 
she  turned  away  and  the  shadows  left  her  face. 
After  all,  what  difference  did  it  make?  It  was 
all  so  long  ago ;  he  had  been  married  five  years — 
[22] 


YESTERDAY— A  TOAST 

and  she — well  it  was  nobody's  affair.  She  went 
down  the  stairs  with  a  defiant  tilt  of  her  chin. 

It  was  this  spirit  that  lent  a  little  effusiveness 
to  her  greeting  of  Murray  in  the  cool  living 
room  below.  He,  big  and  nonchalant,  was  talk- 
ing with  Mrs.  Marston  of  summer  plans,  of  his 
settling  his  family  at  Mill  Valley,  of  his  own 
bachelor  condition — all  with  the  easy  grace  of 
the  family  man.  He  took  Elizabeth's  hand  cor- 
dially and  waved  aside  her  apologies  for  being 
late,  then  resumed  his  light  talk  with  her  aunt 
until  Marjorie  appeared  laden  with  punch  bowl 
and  glasses. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  helping  them  into 
the  automobile.  Marjorie  took  the  back  seat,  then 
he  turned  to  Elizabeth.  Her  cheeks  were  the 
color  of  her  pink  gown  and  of  the  pink  roses  on 
her  hat.  Murray's  eyes  took  on  a  warmer  light, 
and  for  the  fraction  of  a  second  they  faced  each 
other,  Murray  motionless,  with  his  square 
shoulders  and  stubborn  chin,  Elizabeth  wavering. 
Then  she  shook  her  head  and  got  in  beside  Mar- 
jorie. He  leaned  over  the  wheel  to  tuck  in  her 
skirt  and  as  he  did  so  their  eyes  met,  her's  were 
very  bright.  "Do  you  remember,"  he  said,  "the 
old  bay  horse.  He  was  very  faithful  and  steady, 
wasn't  he?"  Then  he  cranked  the  machine, 
sprang  lightly  into  the  front  seat  and  turned  the 
wheel. 

They  went  slowly  at  first.  The  warm  air 
[23] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

fanned  them  with  its  languorous  breath  of  mag- 
nolia blossoms  and  roses,  and  the  palms  stirred 
their  stiff  fronds  faintly.  Ahead  the  road 
gleamed  white  and  the  heat  wavered  up  and  beat 
upon  their  faces.  Then  they  turned  into  College 
Avenue  and  came  upon  a  stretch  of  level  road. 
Murray  turned  on  the  power  and  the  machine  re- 
sponded to  his  hand  with  a  leap.  They  slid  along 
easily  and  the  curbings  fled  past  them  in  a  glare 
of  white,  blended  with  the  green  hills  beyond. 
The  wind  scorched  their  faces  and  sang  its  wild 
song  in  their  ears.  Still  Murray  sat  motionless, 
his  broad  shoulders  set,  his  hand  on  the  wheel, 
and  Elizabeth  watched  him  with  wide,  dark  eyes. 
Once  Marjorie  clutched  her  hand  and  gasped, 
"Tell  him  to  stop,"  but  Elizabeth  shook  her  off 
and  said  nothing. 

They  came  at  last  in  sight  of  the  campus  with 
its  ivy-covered  buildings,  set  among  the  oaks. 
Murray  slowed  down  and  rounding  a  corner  with 
a  deft  curve,  stopped  in  front  of  Hearst  Hall. 
He  jumped  out  and  handed  Marjorie  down,  then 
turned  to  Elizabeth.  She  was  very  pale  and 
the  dark  hair  lay  in  ruffled  waves  about  her  fore- 
head and  neck.  Murray  took  both  her  hands. 
They  were  cold  and  he  held  them  tight  as  he 
helped  her  to  the  ground.  Elizabeth  caught  her 
breath  and  turned  away,  to  find  a  group  of  old 
college  friends  coming  up  the  walk.  They 
laughed  and  called  out,  "Well,  this  seems  like 
[24] 


YESTERDAY— A  TOAST 

old  times!"  Elizabeth  flushed  but  Murray 
answered  heartily,  "Yes,  doesn't  it,  we're  all 
young  again  today." 

They  entered  the  quaint,  weather-browned 
building  under  a  pergola  of  clematis  and  purple 
wisteria,  and  turned  up  the  broad  stairway  to  the 
hall  above.  Marjorie  hastened  away  with  the 
punch  bowl  but  Murray  and  Elizabeth  paused  a 
moment  in  the  shadow  of  a  palm.  Neither  had 
been  in  the  hall  since  their  graduation  six  years 
before,  and  its  mingled  strangeness  and  familiar- 
ity set  old  chords  vibrating  until  from  out  dusky 
corners  stole  faint  strains  of  forgotten  music 
and  shadowy  forms  floated  past  them  in  a  brief, 
sweet  vision  of  the  past.  Elizabeth's  hand  hung 
at  her  side  and  Murray's  was  near.  Their  palms 
touched  for  an  instant  and  each  felt  the  other's 
thoughts. 

It  was  Elizabeth  who  spoke  first.  "Let  us 
go  on,  we  must  speak  to  Professor  Anderson." 

The  old  professor,  who  had  been  a  favorite 
with  the  class  and  was  its  guest  of  honor  for 
the  afternoon,  stood  in  a  circle  of  his  former 
students.  Others  came  up  at  intervals  and  were 
greeted  with  his  old  school  courtesy  and  kind- 
liness. Murray  and  Elizabeth  entered  the  group 
together  and  the  professor  recognized  them  with 
more  than  his  usual  warmth.  "Well,  Murray, 
so  you're  still  doing  politics — booked  for  the  leg- 
islature next  year,  they  tell  me.  Oakland  is  to 
[25] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

be  congratulated.  That  reminds  me,"  and  he 
turned  to  Elizabeth  with  a  cordial  hand  shake. 
"You're  to  be  married  soon,  I  hear,  to  Jack  Dan- 
vers — let  me  see — a  nought-one  man,  wasn't  he? 
You  knew  him  in  college  of  course.  Well,  my 
best  wishes,"  and  he  made  her  a  stately  bow. 
He  watched  them  as  they  walked  away,  Mur- 
ray's broad  shoulders  bending  over  the  girl's 
slender  figure,  then  he  shook  his  head  and  turned 
again  to  the  chatter  around  him. 

Murray  and  Elizabeth  moved  on  through  the 
animated  groups  of  men  and  women — boys  and 
girls  today — greeting  everybody,  stopping  here 
and  there  to  chat  and  laugh  over  some  old  es- 
capade. They  came  across  Dick  Danvers,  sur- 
rounded by  half  a  dozen  girls  as  usual,  and 
keeping  them  all  laughing.  His  boyish  face, 
topped  by  its  tight  gold  curls,  lighted  up  with 
a  flash  when  he  saw  them.  "Just  the  people  1 
want  to  see."  He  shook  Elizabeth's  hand  and 
clapped  Murray  on  the  back.  "Well,  old  man, 
how  could  Oakland  spare  you  this  afternoon. 
You're  one  of  the  desperate  despots  we  used  to 
hear  about  in  college.  Do  you  remember  when 
you  ran  for  class  president,  and  got  beaten?" 

Murray  laughed  in  reply.  "I  did  get  turned 
down  a  good  deal  in  those  days" — he  caught 
Elizabeth's  eye  and  became  suddenly  grave. 
"Things  go  more  my  way  now.  I've  caught  the 
trick."  Elizabeth  noticed  that  the  slant  of  his 
[26] 


YESTERDAY— A  TOAST 

jaw  was  grim — a  mastiff's  that  hangs  on  to  the 
death.  She  shivered  and  started  on. 

A  young  matron  came  hurrying  up  with  a 
nod  for  Murray  and  an  ecstatic  embrace  for  Eliz- 
abeth. "Oh,  Elizabeth,  you  don't  know  how  glad 
I  am,  I  haven't  had  a  chance  before;  do  let  me 
come  and  talk  it  all  over  with  you.  Jack's  such  a 
splendid  fellow,  so  like  Dick,  and  he's  a  dear! 
Of  course  you're  terribly  busy  but — "  Eliza- 
beth had  extricated  herself  with  difficulty  from 
the  enveloping  flounces  and  was  smiling  faintly. 
"Yes,  I  am  busy,  I'm  rather  tired."  "Why  you 
do  look  pale,"  her  friend  broke  in,  "it's  this  heat, 
but  you'll  be  out  of  it  soon.  Ah,  Murray,"  she 
turned  upon  him  rapturously,  "that  baby!  I 
saw  him  yesterday  at  the  ferry.  How  could 
you  let  him  go?  But  of  course  you'll  be  over 
there  half  the  time.  And  anyway  you  men  always 
amuse  yourselves  when  your  wives  are  away.  Oh 
I  know !"  she  shook  her  finger  coquettishly  at  him. 
"I  worm  it  out  of  Edward  about  your  stag  par- 
ties and  all  that.  When  the  cat's  away — "  But 
Murray  and  Elizabeth  had  torn  themselves  loose 
and  were  trying  to  get  out  of  the  main  stream 
which  was  moving  down  the  hall. 

They  found  themselves  finally  in  an  eddy  at  one 
side  of  the  current,  and  stood  again  alone.  Eliza- 
beth was  very  tired  and  her  whole  body  showed 
the  terrible  lassitude  that  seemed  to  have  seized 
her.  Murray  stood  with  his  broad  shoulders 
[27] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

to  the  crowd  and  faced  her.  His  jaw  had  the 
mastiff  set  that  she  dreaded.  "Elizabeth,"  he 
said,  "look  at  me,"  and  she  pressed  her  hands 
against  the  wall  behind  her  and  leaned  hard 
against  it.  "Don't,"  she  said  faintly,  but  his 
insistence  bore  her  down  and  at  last  he  had  her 
eyes  —  dark  with  pain  and  a  great  weariness. 
"Elizabeth,"  he  said,  "aren't  you  tired  of  all  this? 
We've  made  a  mistake,  let's  cut  it  all  out  and 
live  our  lives  as  God  intended  we  should,  if  you 
still  care." 

"Don't,"  she  moaned,  and  turned  her  face 
away,  but  he  held  her  relentlessly.  She 
was  twisting  her  long,  brown  ringers  and  the 
diamond  glittered  with  a  hard  light  and  cut 
into  the  tender  flesh.  His  voice  dropped  to  a 
whisper  as  he  bent  over  her.  "Dear  little  Bess !" 

A  sharp  voice  came  from  an  alcove  near  them 
— "Yes,  she's  old  enough  to  know  better,  of 
course ;  he's  only  fooling  with  her,  but  I  thought 
she  had  more  sense;  and  then  you  know  every- 
body said  they  were  engaged  when  they  were 
in  college.  He  was  crazy  over  her."  Elizabeth 
started  up  as  if  awakened  from  a  dream,  and 
Murray's  face  stiffened.  "Let's  get  out  of  this," 
he  said,  roughly,  and  led  the  way  down  the 
hall. 

Elizabeth,  following  at  a  little  distance,  noted 
the  imperious  set  of  his  head  and  shoulders  above 
the  crowd  through  which  he  was  pushing  ruth- 
[28] 


YESTERDAY— A  TOAST 

lessly.  There  was  an  air  of  almost  insolent  tri- 
umph in  his  face,  and  something  in  the  full 
throated  voice  sent  a  shudder  over  her.  But 
Murray  was  by  her  side  again  and  they  moved 
on  toward  the  group  around  the  punch  bowl. 

Dick  was  proposing  a  toast.  When  he  caught 
sight  of  Elizabeth  he  sprang  lightly  upon  a  chair 
and  raising  his  glass  with  a  flourish  that  included 
them  all,  announced,  "To  our  future !"  Murray 
turned  to  Elizabeth.  She  was  quite  pale  and  had 
scarcely  touched  her  glass.  He  looked  down  at  it 
and  then  at  his  own,  untasted.  His  eyes  held 
hers  a  moment,  then  dropped  to  her  lips  with  a 
droop  of  the  eyelids  that  was  a  caress.  He  raised 
his  glass,  "To  our  past,"  he  murmured,  and 
drained  the  last  drop. 

But  Elizabeth  was  looking  past  him  at  Dick, 
and  in  a  swift  vision  there  came  to  her  another 
face,  stronger  and  graver,  but  with  the  same 
hint  of  laughter  in  the  honest  grey  eyes.  It  was 
a  face  to  trust  a  life-time  and  her  heart  suddenly 
went  out  towards  it  in  a  great  throb  of  thank- 
fulness. She  turned  quickly  to  Murray  and  her 
cup  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  little  shiver  of  broken 
glass.  "How  careless  of  me,"  she  laughed,  and 
looked  him  full  in  the  face. 


c  — 

^    -fv  l_t 

[29] 


The  Idealist 


long  shadows  of  the  autumn  eve- 
mn£  were  creeping  slowly  across  the 
campus;  already  they  had  passed  in 
gentle  undulation  over  the  bleachers, 
and  to  the  imponderable  touch  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  men  had  calmed  to  something  less  ferocious, 
finer  and  more  tender.  The  rhythmic  roars  of 
defiance,  the  concerted  bursts  of  exultation  had 
ceased,  and  now  they  sang  a  little  song,  softly, 
in  the  gloaming : 

"Oh,  here's  to  Charley  Pringle, 
Charley  Pringle,  Charley  Pringle, 
Oh,  here's  to  Charley  Pringle, 
God  bless  him,  heigh-ho !  " 

To  Thane,  lying  on  the  side-lines  in  a  tense 

stretching  of  his  slender  body  toward  the  field, 

the  change  was  grateful,  and  the  last  of  some 

bitterness  black  within  him  evaporated  to  a  glow 

[30] 


THE  IDEALIST 

of  his  whole  being.  Before  him,  vague  in  the 
brown  haze  of  the  coming  night,  the  team,  with 
sudden  rushings  of  feet  and  catapultic  shocks, 
was  tearing  through  the  scrubs  in  the  last  prac- 
tice before  the  big  game.  On  the  day  following 
the  morrow  they  would  go  forth  to  battle  for  the 
college,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  now  on  the  side- 
lines meant  that  he  would  not  be  of  them. 

Four  years  before,  a  freshman,  he  had  gone 
out  upon  the  field  to  strive  for  the  golden  honor 
of  service  now  finally  denied  him.  Right  away  he 
had  been  judged.  From  the  bleachers  his  slen- 
der body,  his  hazy  blue  eyes,  his  ingenuous  fer- 
vor had  been  immediately  recognized  as  an  ele- 
ment of  joy  for  the  long  practice  evenings,  and  as 
promptly  had  gained  him  the  nickname  of 
"Girlie."  And  the  coaches,  discussing  that  night 
the  new  material,  had  dismissed  him  from  further 
consideration  with  one  curt  word — "Crockery" — 
the  fragile  crockery,  material  unfit  for  the  grind- 
ing team-machine.  In  his  four  years  of  furious 
striving  he  had  failed  to  modify  the  verdict. 
"Crockery"  he  had  remained  to  the  coaches, 
though  at  times — often  in  this  last  season — he 
displayed  flashes  of  something  tense,  almost 
weird,  that  threw  them — men  dealing  with  matter 
and  apt  to  forget  the  spirit — into  profound  aston- 
ishment; and  to  the  bleachers  he  was  still 
"Girlie,"  the  very  ardor  of  his  loyalty  to  college 
having  something  exaggerated,  emotional,  almost 
[31] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

mystic,  that  caused  him  to  be  regarded  by  his 
fellows  with  a  certain  irony,  half  tender,  half 
contemptuous. 

They  started  another  verse  on  the  bleachers, 
now  fading  fast  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  giant 
eucalypti,  with  another  name,  in  successive  trib- 
ute to  the  members  of  the  team.  "Oh,  here's  to 
Jimmy  Whipple,"  they  sang, 

"Jimmy  Whipple,  Jimmy  Whipple, 
Oh,  here's  to  Jimmy  Whipple, 
God  bless  him,  heigh-ho !  " 

To  the  vague  melancholy  of  the  hour  they  re- 
sponded unconsciously.  They  sang  in  low  key, 
caressingly;  the  high  voice  of  a  tenor  wailed  a 
little.  Thane  thrilled  in  one  of  4he  accesses  of 
fervor  that  made  him  slightly  ridiculous — a  fer- 
vor of  love,  of  adoration  for  his  College,  his  Alma 
Mater,  Mother  of  his  Soul.  A  tumult  of  sensa- 
tions, of  sentiments,  surged  within  him:  tender- 
ness, fealty,  a  desire  for  sacrifice;  they  mingled 
with  visions  almost  tangible :  a  great  blue  banner 
with  a  golden  C  smacking  high  in  the  breeze, 
marble  halls  upon  tawny  hills  above  an  azure  sea ; 
and  then  all  this  seemed  to  blend  like  vapors  meet- 
ing in  the  sky  and  he  saw  Her,  the  Alma  Mater 
herself,  the  Soul-Mother,  of  whom  he  was  at  once 
the  son  and  the  knight ;  she,  throned  there  above, 
robed  in  clouds,  distant,  shadowy,  inexpressibly 
fair;  upon  her  brow  lay  the  marmoreal  calm  of 
[32] 


THE  IDEALIST 

purity  and  wisdom;  her  hair  was  as  the  streaks 
of  sun-kissed  rain ;  her  eyes  were  as  the  sea. 

But  some  one  shook  him,  and  he  dropped  out 
of  his  fine  frenzy.  The  practice  line-up  had 
ended,  the  scrubs  were  trotting  up  the  hill  to  the 
gymnasium,  and  from  the  centre  of  the  field 
where  the  team  waited  the  coach  was  calling  him. 
Such  returns  to  earth  usually  left  Thane  some- 
what crestfallen,  but  this  night  the  exaltation  did 
not  leave  him;  and  as  he  walked  out  upon  the 
field,  grave  as  for  a  sacrificial  rite,  his  face 
glowed  with  something  that  the  others  had  not. 
He  passed  Garvin,  the  quarter  who  had  beaten 
him  out,  on  his  way  to  the  side-lines  for  his 
sweater;  he  looked  upon  the  squat  power  of  his 
form  without  the  usual  feeling  of  inferiority; 
within  him  something  thrilled  finer  than  anything 
Garvin  might  have.  He  came  to  the  team. 
"Run  them  through  their  plays,"  said  the  coach. 

He  placed  himself  behind  the  rampart  of 
muscle-bulging  jerseys;  lightly  he  passed  his 
hand  from  end  to  end,  and  each  man  beneath  the 
touch  started  uneasily,  stamped  his  cleats  deeper 
into  the  earth,  drew  closer  to  his  companion  till 
they  were  welded  into  one  body  as  by  a  hoop  of 
steel;  he  passed  a  slow,  heavy  glance  upon  the 
three  backs,  and  the  tense  power  of  their  expec- 
tant crouch  became  vibrant ;  he  spoke  two  or  three 
quiet  words,  and  the  whole  eleven,  a  moment 
before  like  a  dray  mired  and  atilt  in  the  mud, 
F331 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

began  to  tremble  with  an  inward  ebullition,  like  a 
locomotive  feeling  at  the  lever  the  hand  of  the 
favorite  master.  His  signal  rang  in  clear  bugle 
note,  and  the  human  machine  leaped  forward  in 
a  five-yard  ramming.  Another  signal  caught  the 
spend  of  its  effort  and  hurled  it  forward  again; 
and  to  the  crackling  of  repeated  signals  the 
team  swept  across  the  field  in  pulses  of  power,  an 
irresistible  body  at  the  command  of  an  ardent 
soul. 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  coach. 

Immediately  the  team  began  to  disintegrate, 
the  men  smoking  like  wet  straw,  walking  wearily 
toward  the  subs,  who  held  their  sweaters.  But 
Thane  stood  motionless,  rapt  like  the  musician 
who,  long  after  his  bow  has  ceased  caressing  its 
last  note,  listens  to  the  echoes  of  his  unappeased 
soul.  This  was  the  best  he  was  to  know.  On  the 
day  after  the  morrow  the  team  would  go  forth  to 
battle,  and  he  would  not  be  with  them.  This  was 
the  best  he  was  to  know ;  it  was  the  climax  of  his 
career,  this  charge  across  the  empty  field,  puerile, 
against  a  vacuum.  But  it  was  something,  a  great 
deal.  To  the  innermost  fibre  he  glowed  with  the 
exaltation;  for  he  had  felt  respond  to  his  touch 
the  vibrant  force  of  flesh  and  blood ;  he  had  felt 
it  bound  beneath  his  voice,  to  the  inspiration  of 
his  soul :  that  they  could  not  take  from  him ;  rapt, 
he  concentrated  his  being  to  drinking  of  it  to  the 
dregs. 

[34] 


THE  IDEALIST 


On  the  bleachers  they  had  at  length  come  down 
to  his  name.  "Oh,  here's  to  Girlie  Thane,  oh; 
Girlie  Thane,  oh;  Girlie  Thane,  oh,"  they  sang, 
and  the  blended  voices  were  joyous  with  playful 
irony:  "Oh,  here's  to  Girlie  Thane,  oh;  God 
bless  her,  heigh-ho !  "  They  weighed  heavily  upon 
the  "her,"  as  had  been  the  tradition. 

Then  with  a  rush  and  a  shout  they  avalanched 
down  upon  the  field.  The  advance  wave  caught 
up  the  men  of  the  team  on  its  crest,  threw  them 
up  on  heaving  shoulders.  With  a  blare  the  band 
started  a  double-quick  march  and  behind  it  the 
whole  college  danced  the  serpentine  four  abreast. 
They  undulated  across  the  gridiron,  then  up  the 
hill  toward  the  gym.  Thane  walked  up  slowly, 
a  little  apart.  The  intoxication  that  possessed  him 
was  a  silent  and  repressed  one.  The  roar  of  the 
delirious  multitude  came  to  him  as  the  beat  of  a 
far-off  sea.  Like  a  flapping  velvet  cloak  the 
night  was  falling  from  the  sky.  Torches  began 
to  flare  here  and  there,  then  a  long,  lithe  flame 
shot  up  lickingly,  reddening  the  walls  of  the 
gym.  The  freshmen  had  started  their  bonfire. 

In  the  dressing-rooms  the  assistant  coach,  paus- 
ing as  he  started  to  pull  off  his  sweater,  said  to 
the  head  coach: 

"By  the  way,  did  you  notice  how  Thane  ran 
the  team  tonight?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  coach ;  "he  certainly  does  make 
[35] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

it  go.  But  we  settled  that  long  ago.  He's  only 
crockery.  Garvin  is  the  man." 

"That's  right,"  said  the  assistant.  But  he 
could  not  shake  off  the  picture,  still  in  his  mind, 
of  the  team,  one,  concentrated,  welded  into  a 
machine,  thrill  to  the  touch,  leap  to  the  voice  of 
the  slender  young  quarter  with  the  rapt,  spiritual 
face.  And  unconsciously  his  head  shook  from 
side  to  side  in  considering  doubt. 

Outside,  like  red  devils,  the  freshmen  were 
whirling  around  the  fire.  And  Thane,  pausing  at 
the  door  of  the  gym,  looked  past  and  beyond 
them,  to  the  west,  where  yet  lingered  a  last  glow 
of  the  set  sun.  And  there,  far,  shadowy,  inex- 
pressibly fair,  again  he  saw  Her,  the  College, 
his  Alma  Mater,  Mother  of  his  Soul.  And  his 

whole  being  tensed  in  silent  devotion. 

*#*###* 

Thane  lay  on  the  side-lines,  as  seemed  his  eter- 
nal fate.  About  the  quadrangle  of  yellow  earth 
there  rose  on  all  sides,  high,  almost  to  the  skies, 
palpitating  human  walls ;  from  behind  him,  pass- 
ing over  his  prostrate  form  like  puffs  of  com- 
pressed air,  came  the  rhythmic  roars  of  his  col- 
lege men.  Sometimes  these  roars  rose  to  pierc- 
ing, exultant  shrieks  that  flattened  him  still 
lower  with  their  concussion.  His  eyes  were  out 
upon  the  white-streaked  gridiron  upon  which 
his  team,  blue-jerseyed  and  gold-striped,  were 
battling  with  the  men  of  flaming  cardinal  red. 
[36] 


THE  IDEALIST 

A  vague  uneasiness  possessed  him,  for  to  his 
practiced  eye  things  were  not  going  quite  as  had 
been  expected.  The  game  had  begun  with  an  ex- 
change of  punts,  then  Thane's  fellows,  the  Tigers, 
as  they  had  become  popularly  known,  veterans  all, 
working  together  with  the  calm  confidence  of 
their  proven  strength,  resolutely  took  the  offen- 
sive. By  a  series  of  elastic  lunges,  almost  jauntily 
they  swept  back  the  Cardinal  team,  heavy  and 
strong  as  it  was,  clear  across  the  field,  back 
almost  against  their  goal-posts  in  a  heaving  dis- 
ordered mass.  There,  however,  Garvin,  the 
squat  quarter,  signaled  for  a  drop  kick.  Kaars- 
berg,  the  full,  fell  back,  received  the  ball  a  little 
high,  juggled  a  trifle — and  the  kick  went  wide 
of  the  posts.  Immediately,  from  their  twenty- 
five-yard  line  where  the  ball  had  been  brought 
out,  the  Cardinal  team,  with  a  strong  breeze  be- 
hind, punted  far  down  the  field;  and  when  the 
Tigers  secured  the  ball  it  was  fifteen  yards  within 
their  own  territory. 

With  the  lesson  of  perseverance  deep  written  in 
their  souls  by  many  battles,  the  Tigers,  undis- 
mayed, started  again.  This  time,  however,  they 
did  not  sweep  off  their  feet  the  Cardinal  team, 
which,  though  new  and  relatively  inexperienced, 
was  heavy  and  tremendously  powerful.  The  ad- 
vance was  slow — a  patient,  stubborn  pounding. 
Three  times  the  linesmen  had  to  be  called  in  for 
accurate  measurement  of  downs  gained  by  inches. 
[37] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

But  finally,  when  in  triumphant  burst  the  striped 
team  gained  the  ten-yard  line,  again  Garvin, 
made  sullen  by  his  first  failure,  signaled  for  a 
drop.  To  a  drone  of  disapproval  from  the 
bleachers,  Kaarsberg  danced  back  to  position. 
The  ball  sailed  to  him  fair  from  the  centre.  Rais- 
ing it  with  arms  outstretched  straight  opposite  his 
eyes,  he  let  it  fall,  at  the  same  time  stepping  for- 
ward with  his  left  foot;  his  right  swung  sharply 
forward,  caught  the  lower  oval  upon  the  toe,  and 
the  ball  rose  slowly  up  and  forward.  It  soared 
toward  the  goal,  well-directed,  but  a  little  to  the 
right,  hovered  a  moment  as  in  doubt,  almost  over 
the  cross-bar ;  then  a  fierce  puff  of  the  fast  rising 
wind  deflected  it.  It  swerved  to  the  right,  im- 
perceptibly at  first,  then  decidedly,  and  swooped 
past  the  long  perpendicular  post,  a  few  inches 
outside  of  it.  A  roar  of  disappointment,  quickly 
drowned  by  an  exultant  cry  from  the  other  side, 
came  from  the  bleachers ;  and  in  the  turmoil  the 
Cardinals,  bringing  the  ball  out  to  the  twenty- 
five-yard  line,  kicked  it  atop  a  whirling  gust  of 
wind  deep  into  blue-and-gold  territory. 

Securing  the  ball,  the  striped  team  gathered 
itself  together  for  another  effort,  agrowl  at  the 
failure  of  generalship  that  was  robbing  them  of 
their  toil.  The  linemen,  cleats  deep  in  the  earth, 
lowered  their  heads,  and  the  whole  welded  body 
swung  to  and  fro  for  a  moment  like  a  sullen  bull 
nursing  its  rage ;  then  with  a  catapultic  shock  it 
[38] 


THE  IDEALIST 

was  on  its  way  again,  tearing  through  the  red 
opposition.  But  the  Cardinal  team  was  fighting 
better  every  moment.  Right  in  the  game  it  was 
getting  the  experience  that  solely  it  lacked ;  min- 
ute after  minute  it  was  being  pounded  into  unity. 
The  gains  became  shorter ;  at  nearly  every  down 
the  linesmen  with  their  sticks  and  chain  ran  out 
upon  the  field  to  measure  the  bitterly  disputed 
yards ;  and  the  blue-and-gold  backs  when  tackled 
clawed  the  ground  for  precious  inches.  And 
then  finally  when  the  Cardinal  team  had  been 
backed  up  panting,  sobbing,  against  its  five-yard 
line,  the  ferocious  attacks  of  the  Tigers  broke 
impotently  upon  it  like  sea-foam  upon  rock — and 
in  three  whirling  downs  the  Cardinal  eleven  had 
regained  the  ball  and  punted  it  back  far  down 
the  field. 

But  again  the  Tigers,  iron-hearted,  started  for 
the  Cardinal  goal.  By  this  time  it  was  not  the 
confident,  jaunty  team  of  the  beginning.  Each 
gain  took  all  their  skill,  their  cunning,  the  lesson 
learned  bitterly  in  so  many  battles;  each  gain 
took  all  of  their  concentrated  strength  which  de- 
spairingly they  felt  ebbing  from  them  like  sand 
out  of  a  torn  sack ;  and  Thane,  on  the  side-lines, 
writhed  to  the  agony  of  their  toil.  Behind  him, 
in  the  press-stand,  a  reporter  was  shouting  into  a 
telephone,  and  his  short,  brutal  sentences  rang 
inexorable  like  a  pronouncement  of  doom.  "The 
Tigers  are  tiring,"  the  reporter  shouted ;  "they're 
[39] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

tiring,  tiring!  Their  gains  are  almost  nothing 
now.  Their  strength  is  going.  They  can't  score 
now — they  can't,  they  can't!  It's  a  busted  team, 
busted,  clean  busted !  " 

And  it  was  true.  Those  four  tremendous  and 
unavailing  sweeps  across  the  field  had  sapped 
their  vitality;  but  that  was  not  the  worst.  The 
wind  of  panic  was  among  them,  of  panic  at  the 
unexpected  and  fearful  resistance,  at  the  suddenly 
revealed  weakness  of  their  leader's  judgment. 
The  rancor  of  men  being  beaten  without  their 
fault  fermented  within  them  an  unreasoning  dis- 
trust of  their  fellows,  once  so  thoroughly  trusted ; 
and  the  team  was  disintegrating.  Thane  saw  it 
all,  detail  by  detail.  Greisberg  and  Athearn,  the 
two  big  guards,  were  working  spasmodically,  at 
one  time  tearing  immense  holes  in  exaggerated 
despairing  effort  the  next,  listless,  allowing  their 
opponents  to  get  the  jump  on  them.  Whipple, 
the  left  tackle,  was  wrecking  himself  in  unrea- 
soning fury.  Thane  looked  at  Pringle,  expecting 
from  him  some  of  the  typical  encouraging  shouts 
that  so  often  had  pulled  together  a  frenzied  team ; 
but  right  away  he  saw  that  the  big,  jolly  captain 
was  lost  in  his  own  individual  problem.  Pitted 
against  him  was  a  young  freshman,  a  giant  of 
singular  strength  and  agility,  and  Pringle  was 
calling  to  himself  all  his  resources  to  uphold  his 
veteran's  prestige  which  alone  up  to  now  had 
enabled  him  to  subdue  his  terrible  antagonist. 
[40] 


THE  IDEALIST 

He  knew  that  he  must  bluff  the  young  fellow, 
retain  the  moral  ascendency,  or  be  outplayed.  So, 
pale  as  death,  big  tears  of  sweat  upon  his  brow, 
he  smiled  in  the  face  of  his  yet  diffident  opponent, 
tweaked  his  nose,  pulled  his  hair,  joshed  him  in 
a  running  stream  of  contemptuous  talk,  submitted 
him  to  a  thousand  indignities,  while  within  him 
he  feared  the  sudden  realization  of  superior 
strength  which  might  at  any  moment  come  to  the 
novice.  And  so  he  had  no  time  to  give  to  his 
fast-breaking  team.  Behind  the  line  things  were 
as  bad.  Kaarsberg,  disheveled,  dilated-eyed,  was 
going  wild.  Hall  was  in  one  of  his  bad  moments ; 
a  sneer  upon  his  lips,  he  played  aloof  from  his 
fellows.  Of  that  whole  team  only  three  men 
remained  unmoved :  Cornish,  the  centre,  grim  and 
silent,  snapping  back  the  ball  steady  as  a  me- 
chanical feeder ;  Smith,  the  right  half,  bucking 
with  his  steady  fury;  and  Garvin,  squat  and 
stolid,  passing  the  ball  with  the  smoothness  of  an 
endless  chain,  but  running  the  team  heavily,  with 
no  vibration  to  his  calls,  no  inspiration  to  his 
gestures. 

And  yet  the  disorganized  team,  with  jerky 
attacks,  forced  the  ball  along  for  twenty  yards. 
They  lost  it,  and  the  Cardinal  Reds  punted  it 
back  forty.  With  another  series  of  spasmodic 
efforts  the  Tigers  pushed  forward  fifteen  yards; 
and  the  Reds  punted  back  forty.  Then,  sullen 
and  morose,  Garvin  gave  up  the  offensive. 
[41] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

Kaarsberg  punted  into  Red  territory;  but  the 
Reds,  cunningly  evading  the  invitation  to  take 
the  lead,  punted  back  and,  with  the  wind  behind 
them,  gained  ten  yards  in  the  exchange. 

And  then  came  the  disaster.  Only  ten  yards 
from  his  own  last  white  line,  the  Tiger  quarter 
decided  on  a  fake  kick;  but  his  signal,  muffled 
in  the  roar  of  the  rooters,  was  misunderstood  by 
Cornish.  Straight  back  between  his  legs  the 
centre  hurled  the  ball  to  Kaarsberg  as  for  a  punt, 
but  the  full-back  was  already  galloping  far  to  the 
left  for  the  fake.  With  a  heart-bursting  sense  of 
the  irretrievable,  Thane  saw  the  ball,  with  none 
to  receive  it,  strike  the  ground,  then  roll  on  clean 
over  the  Tiger  goal-line;  he  saw  Garvin  strain- 
ing after  it,  a  whirl  of  Cardinal  red  behind,  saw 
him  leave  his  feet,  flash  along  the  ground,  cover 
the  ball  with  his  body.  But  it  was  too  late.- 
Before  he  could  rise  and  throw  himself  back  upon 
the  gridiron,  the  red  whirl  was  upon  him,  crush- 
ing him  back  to  earth — and  it  was  a  safety,  and 
it  scored  two  clear  points  for  the  Cardinal. 

For  a  moment  Thane  was  stunned;  then  his 
blood  heated  within  him  in  a  burst  of  rebelling 
loyalty.  And  as  a  few  minutes  later  the  half 
being  over  he  followed  the  team  to  the  dressing- 
rooms  without  knowing  it  he  was  repeating  over 
and  over  again:  "We'll  beat  'em,  kill  'em,  next 
half;  we'll  beat  'em,  kill  'em,  next  half!"  Above 
him  in  the  penumbra  of  his  heated  imagination, 
[42] 


THE  IDEALIST 

he  saw  Her,  the  College,  calm,  pure,  inexpressibly 
fair.  It  could  not  be,  it  could  not  be ;  her  knights 
could  not  fail !  A  formidable  desire  to  act,  to  do, 
twitched  at  his  muscles ;  and  on  his  bench,  in  an 
obscure  corner  of  the  steaming  room,  he  was 
mumbling,  without  knowing  it,  his  desperate 
slogan :  "We'll  beat  'em,  kill  'em,  next  half !" 

The  physical  condition  of  the  team  had  not 
escaped  the  trainers,  and  for  five  minutes  there 
was  heard  nothing  but  the  dripping  of  water,  the 
gurgle  of  wet  sponges,  the  ripping  of  bandages; 
then  the  coach  sprang  upon  a  bench  and  began 
to  talk.  Thane  listened,  all  ready  for  firm  ap- 
proval ;  but  a  disappointment,  vague  at  first,  then 
immense,  overwhelmed  him.  The  man  spoke  bit- 
ingly  of  the  mistakes  made,  of  the  going  to  pieces 
of  the  team;  but  it  was  technical,  technical,  all 
technical — not  at  all  what  was  needed,  what 
Thane  himself  longed  to  pour  out;  an  evocation 
of  the  College,  the  Alma  Mater  for  whom  they 
fought,  a  call  upon  their  fealty,  their  love,  their 
passionate  devotion.  It  was  not  there,  not  there 
at  all,  in  that  bitter  upbraiding — the  flame  of  sac- 
rifice, the  rally  to  the  Cause  that  would  sweep 
these  men  onward,  irresistible,  to  victory.  It  was 
not  there — and  Thane,  without  knowing  it,  was 
on  his  feet,  had  sprung  upon  the  bench.  His  lips 
opened ;  a  ringing  "Fellows !  "  was  already  upon 
them 

But  the  referee's  shrill  whistle,  calling  the  re- 
[43] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

newal  of  the  battle,  saved  him  from  the  ridiculous 
demonstration.  Thane  followed  the  team  out, 
leaving  them  at  the  side-lines.  The  men  in  the 
short  recess,  had  regained  their  composure ;  their 
bodies  glowing  with  comfort  beneath  the  new,  dry 
jerseys,  they  trotted  out  solidly  in  a  compact  pla- 
toon far  different  from  the  straggling  rout  that 
had  left  the  field  at  the  end  of  the  first  half. 
Thane  noted  this,  noted  the  fixed  eyes  and  grind- 
ing teeth,  and  his  soul  grew  firm  with  rock- 
bound  confidence.  "Things  will  be  different 
now,"  he  said  to  himself;  "mighty  different 
now !  " 

And  for  a  while  they  were.  Confidently  the 
Tigers  took  the  offensive,  and,  working  smoothly, 
like  well-oiled  machinery,  with  a  cunning  check- 
ing and  sudden  concerted  release  of  strength  that 
pushed  home  eleven  efforts  as  one,  they  swept 
victoriously  along  the  field.  But  a  perverse  Fate 
hovered  over  them.  A  fumble  lost  them  the  ball 
on  the  ten-yard  line.  The  Cardinal  full-back 
punted,  and  Kaarsberg,  slipping  in  the  one  puddle 
of  mud  left  on  the  field  by  a  watering-cart, 
dropped  the  ball,  the  Reds  regaining  it.  On  the 
blue-and-gold  thirty-yard  line  the  Cardinal  full- 
back took  his  position  for  a  try  at  a  field-goal. 

It  was  a  critical  moment,  but  Thane  did  not 
fear.    The  Tigers  were  again  the  veterans  of  old. 
Thane  saw  the  line  settle  down  in  a  crouch,  tre- 
mendous with  resolve.    From  the  bleachers  came 
[44] 


THE  IDEALIST 

a  rhythmic  command:  "Block  that  kick!  Block 
that  kick !  "  The  ball  sailed  back  from  the  centre ; 
Thane  saw  the  striped  jerseys  flash  through  the 
Cardinal  line  like  spray  through  a  sieve;  he  saw 
Pringle,  ahead  of  the  rest,  leap  up  in  the  air, 
remain  as  if  suspended  there,  huge  arms  out- 
stretched as  upon  a  cross.  There  was  a  resound- 
ing thump.  Thane  sprang  to  his  feet  electrified. 
"Kick  blocked!"  he  yelled  shrilly. 

And  instantaneously  he  saw  the  victorious 
stroke  turned  into  defeat.  By  an  extraordinary 
chance  the  ball,  bounding  back  from  Pringle's 
chest,  nestled  right  into  the  arms  of  the  Cardinal 
full-back.  With  the  rapidity  of  instinct  he 
swerved  aside  and  then,  the  ball  tucked  securely 
under  his  armpit,  was  loping  at  full  speed  around 
the  bewildered  Tigers,  huddled  up  by  their  con- 
vergent charge  to  block.  Kaarsberg  himself  was 
off  his  guard ;  at  the  telltale  thump  of  the  blocked 
ball  he  had  sprung  forward.  The  impetus  was 
still  upon  him  when  the  red  jersey  of  the  Car- 
dinal full  flashed  into  sight.  He  threw  himself 
sideways  in  a  long,  desperate  tackle;  his  fingers 
just  tipped  the  heels  of  the  flying  man ;  the  latter 
tripped,  recovered,  and  then,  off  his  balance,  went 
stumbling  and  reeling  onward  across  the  remain- 
ing twenty  yards,  clear  across  the  last  white  line 
for  a  touch-down. 

A  silence  of  lead  settled  upon  the  blue-and- 
gold  bleachers,  while  the  stands,  the  sky,  the  whole 
[45] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

universe  went  red,  and  red  screams  pierced  the 
brain.  But  Thane's  whole  being  rose  in  passionate 
affirmation  of  devotion.  At  this  last  trick  played 
by  Fate  upon  the  unsullied  honor  of  his  college  he 
boiled  in  protestation.  It  was  like  some  mon- 
strous divine  injustice.  His  innermost  fibres  re- 
belled and  he  twitched  upon  the  side-lines  in  a 
mad  desire  for  action  in  a  spasm  of  will  to  con- 
quer which  he  felt  he  could  almost  transmit  to 
the  team  out  there  beyond  his  voice  and  touch. 
And  he  watched  them,  absorbed,  watched  them, 
heroically  persistent,  thunder  down  the  field,  to 
lose  the  ball:  and  see  it  swoop  back  over  their 
heads,  stealing  from  them  the  yards  bitterly 
gained ;  thunder  down  again,  almost  to  the  goal, 
for  another  heart-breaking  loss  of  the  ball,  and, 
regaining  it,  again  renew  the  long,  hard,  unavail- 
ing effort  for  the  last  white  line,  the  twofold 
crossing  of  which  alone  could  regain  them  their 
lost  honor.  But  surely  the  shadow  of  the  irrevo- 
cable was  descending  upon  the  doomed  team. 
One  touch-down  would  not  suffice  to  even  up  the 
eight  points  of  the  Cardinal ;  two  were  necessary, 
and  yet  one  seemed  impossible.  Each  time,  after 
hammering  back  the  Red  team  almost  to  the  goal, 
they  failed  in  the  subtle  paroxysm  of  effort  neces- 
sary to  push  home  the  success,  and  the  Reds, 
maddened,  hurled  them  back,  sapped  of  strength, 
like  children.  And  the  crushing  knowledge  of 
how  much  was  to  be  done,  and  how  little  they  yet 
[46] 


THE  IDEALIST 

could  do,  began  to  steal  into  their  hearts  like  a 
paralysis.  The  gains  became  shorter;  the  ball 
began  to  be  lost  farther  from  goal.  The  team  at 
times  only  crept;  finally  it  stopped  in  the  centre 
of  the  field,  as  if  mired,  its  efforts  spasmodic  as 
those  of  a  dying  animal. 

It  was  then  that  the  coach,  watching  with  white 
lips  his  team  going  to  pieces,  stumbled  upon 
Thane.  The  sub-quarter  was  crouched  upon  the 
side-line,  his  legs  doubled  beneath  him,  his 
weight  forward  upon  his  hands — and  his  whole 
body  quivering  elastically  like  that  of  a  feline 
stalking  its  prey.  A  sudden  inspiration  came  to 
the  coach. 

"Get  in  there,  Thane,"  he  said  shortly,  "and 
pull  us  out  of  that  mess." 

And  Thane,  rising  lithely  and  casting  off  his 
sweater  in  the  movement,  stepped  out  upon  the 
field.  He  went  across  the  trampled  ground,  calm, 
grave-eyed,  as  if  to  a  sacrificial  rite;  the  re- 
strained exaltation  of  his  being  shone  from  his 
face  like  a  white  flame,  and  the  bleachers,  mute 
at  first  with  astonishment  and  doubt,  now  catch- 
ing the  subtle  emanation,  broke  out  into  a  great 
cry  of  joyous  confidence. 

He  came  to  the  team,  took  his  position  behind 
the  rampart  of  muscle-bulging  jerseys.  Lightly 
he  passed  his  hand  from  end  to  end;  each  man 
beneath  the  touch  startled,  stamped  the  ground, 
dug  his  cleats  into  the  earth,  snuggled  close  to 
[47] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

his  fellow,  till  they  were  bound  as  by  a  hoop  of 
steel.  He  turned  toward  the  backs,  and  to  his 
glance  they  crouched  low,  vibrant  with  cumulat- 
ing effort.  He  spoke  a  quiet  word,  and  the  team, 
a  moment  before  like  an  abandoned  dray 
careened  in  the  mud,  began  to  tremble  with  an 
inward  ebullition,  like  a  locomotive  feeling  at  the 
lever  the  caress  of  the  master's  hand.  It  was  a 
third  down  with  five  yards  to  gain,  but  he  did 
not  doubt. 

"Four-ten-six !  "  he  shouted  like  a  clarion,  and 
Hall,  taking  the  ball  from  him,  plunged  ahead,  his 
whole  weight  forward,  his  feet  drumming  the 
ground  behind.  With  two  thuds  that  sounded  as 
one,  Greisberg  and  Pringle  tore  open  the  Car- 
dinal line  and  Hall  flashed  through.  He  crashed 
against  the  secondary  defense,  wavered  a  mo- 
ment, his  feet  still  furiously  pounding  the  ground, 
then,  the  whole  team  swirling  behind  him,  he 
swerved,  broke  loose,  and,  with  a  Cardinal  back 
twined  like  a  snake  about  his  legs,  staggered  on 
for  six  yards. 

"First  down !  "  called  the  referee. 

Again  Thane  called  upon  Hall  for  another 
gain ;  then  he  cross-tackled  Smith  in  a  rhinoceros 
charge,  and,  the  Cardinal  line  now  crouching  low 
for  better  resistance,  he  sent  Kaarsberg  hurdling 
like  a  comet  over  their  heads. 

And  thus  they  went  down  the  field,  an  irre- 
sistible machine  infused  with  an  indomitable 
[48] 


THE  IDEALIST 

soul.  Ceaselessly  running  from  one  end  of  the 
line  to  the  other  with  word  and  gesture  of  en- 
couragement he  welded  the  eleven  to  the  heat  of 
his  faith.  Fifteen  yards  from  a  touch-down  they 
lost  the  ball,  and,  taking  it  forty  yards  back,  from 
where  it  had  been  punted,  they  started  again. 

"Oh,  we'll  come  back !  "  he  shouted  to  the  Car- 
dinal captain  smiling  derisively  at  this  new  check ; 
"you  can't  beat  us;  you  can't  beat  Her  you 
know !  "  And  his  tone  had  a  calm  assurance  that 
froze  the  red-jerseyed  man.  And  they  began 
again  the  long  assault.  With  great  whistling  ex- 
pulsions of  breath  as,  of  one  man,  as  of  some 
gigantic  wood-chopper  felling  some  mammoth 
oak,  the  team  rammed  and  rammed  with  con- 
stantly increasing  fury.  And  all  the  time  he  was 
playing  upon  the  Cardinal  line  like  a  pianist  upon 
his  instrument  his  ear  attentive  for  the  false  note. 
And  at  last  he  had  found  it — the  left  tackle;  it 
was  the  left  tackle  that  was  weakening.  The 
great  hoarse  breath  of  the  team  quickened  to  his 
spur  redoubled  its  beats,  and  like  a  fiendish  cata- 
pult they  battered  the  doomed  man,  broke  him, 
surged  over  him,  drowned  him,  dazed,  blinded 
as  by  a  gale-pushed  surf.  Five  yards  from  goal 
the  Cardinal  team  stopped  them  for  two  downs, 
and  then,  with  one  last  chance  before  them,  the 
Tigers,  throbbing  with  fury,  hurled  them  back 
and  swept  them  across  the  last  precious  white  line. 

A  moment  later  the  goal  was  kicked.  But  this 
[49] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

was  not  enough.  This  made  six  points  only  to 
the  Cardinal  eight. 

"We'll  come  again,  in  a  minute ! "  Thane 
shouted  to  the  Cardinal  captain,  and  then,  to  the 
referee :  "How  much  time  have  we  " 

And  then  he  sickened  to  the  sense  of  irretriev- 
able disaster.  For  the  referee,  pursing  up  his  lips 
significantly,  had  shaken  his  head  in  refusal  to 
answer — which  meant  that  the  five-minute  limit 
beyond  which  time  cannot  be  told  was  already 
passed,  that  there  were  now  left  less  than  five 
minutes  to  turn  defeat  into  victory,  less  than  five 
— how  much  less  he  could  only  surmise  in  exas- 
perating doubt.  There  was  still  in  his  mind  a 
vague  picture  of  the  referee  rushing  to  him  with 
open  mouth  between  two  scrimmages :  that  must 
have  been  the  announcement,  but  just  when  it 
had  come  he  could  not  remember.  At  one 
moment  it  seemed  but  a  second  ago,  the  man's 
voice  still  echoed  in  his  ear;  and  then  suddenly 
it  fell  back,  back  in  past  time,  and  he  started  in 
fear,  imagining  the  shrill  whistle  that  would  her- 
ald the  end. 

The  Cardinal  team  spread  out  in  a  long  line 
across  the  centre  of  the  field;  the  Tigers  scat- 
tered over  their  own  half;  from  his  position, 
clear  back,  almost  beneath  the  white  arms  of  the 
goal,  Thane  looked  upon  his  men,  and  he  saw 
that  they  were  crushed;  that  this  last  verdict  of 
Time,  coming  upon  the  fag-end  of  their  endur- 
[50] 


THE  IDEALIST 

ance,  had  broken  them.  The  touch-down  must  be 
made  immediately,  it  must  be  made  by  one  man 
— it  must  be  made  by  him ! 

A  heavy  silence  had  fallen  upon  the  arena ;  the 
bleachers,  in  a  reaction  from  the  delirious  strain, 
were  numb ;  motionless,  as  if  wrought-iron,  they 
looked  upon  the  beaten  team,  pennants  and  colors 
hanging  flutterless.  Far  across  the  trodden  field, 
barred  by  the  Cardinal  goal-posts,  the  sun  was 
setting.  Thane  thrilled  in  an  ecstasy  of  resolu- 
tion. In  the  glow  of  that  descending  sun,  visible 
only  to  him  through  the  divination  of  love,  she 
appeared,  his  College,  the  Mother  of  his  Soul, 
throned  there  above  earthly  turmoil,  serene  in  her 
trust;  and  within  the  ample  folds  of  her  cloud 
garments  her  arms  stretched  to  him  in  calm, 
assured  appeal. 

There  was  a  shrill  whistle.  The  man  at  the 
centre  of  the  spread  Cardinal  line  ran  forward 
with  shortened  steps;  there  was  a  thump,  and 
far  up  into  the  depths  of  the  sky  the  ball  soared 
slowly,  while,  following  along  the  ground  be- 
neath, the  red-jerseyed  line  thundered  down  the 
field.  And  right  away  Thane  saw  that  the  ball 
was  his.  It  rose,  rose,  till  it  seemed  but  a  little 
black  spot;  it  seemed  to  stick,  pasted  to 
the  heavens ;  and  then  it  began  to  come 
down,  down,  down  in  long  spirals,  with  ever 
increasing  velocity.  Thane,  changing  ground 
with  each  of  its  swoops,  remained  beneath  it,  and 
[51] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

suddenly,  with  a  vicious  last  burst  it  banged  into 
his  arms.  For  a  moment  he  was  still,  looking 
above  the  far  Cardinal  goal-posts,  into  the  sunset 
depths  where  he  saw  Her  calling  to  him  in  tran- 
quil command.  Then,  with  a  side-step  that  threw 
off  the  first  red  tackier,  he  lowered  his  head  and 
started  down  the  field. 

And  then  the  multitude  saw  something  that 
lived  ever  after  in  the  college  annals.  They  saw 
Thane,  cunningly  concealing  himself  behind  the 
team  which  had  bunched  before  him,  follow  it  as 
it  thundered  down  the  centre  of  the  field  in  a 
living  shield;  then,  as  its  impetus  spent  itself 
upon  the  Cardinal  charge,  leave  it  and  spring  out 
alone  to  the  left.  They  saw  him  with  a  phenom- 
enal burst  of  speed  circle  clear  around  a  trio  of 
red  jerseys,  and,  swerving  back  to  a  straight 
course,  make  right  for  the  goal-posts.  He 
struck  a  group  of  Cardinal  men  who  had  diag- 
onaled  to  intercept  him  as  he  circled,  and  his 
striped  jersey  flashed  through  them  as  if  some- 
thing vapory  that  glided  through  matter — and 
then  he  was  clear,  a  red  whirl  in  pursuit  and  two 
men  only  in  the  way.  The  first  approached  him, 
carefully  measuring  distance  and  speed.  He 
crouched ;  his  legs  distended  like  springs,  and  he 
flew  low  along  the  ground.  Thane's  left  arm  went 
out  straight  like  a  lance,  and  suddenly  the  red 
jersey  collapsed  like  a  rag.  Thane  wavered  a 
moment;  he  sent  a  queer,  dazed  look  ahead  and 
[52] 


THE  IDEALIST 

above,  seemed  to  find  what  he  sought,  and  then 
with  a  smile,  his  eyes  ahead  and  up  in  a  singu- 
lar rapt  expression,  he  sprang  forward  again, 
straight  for  the  last  man  in  his  path  as  if  unaware 
of  his  presence.  He  neared  him  with  great 
leaps;  he  was  almost  upon  him.  Suddenly  his 
whole  body  seemed  to  rise  in  air;  his  knees 
snapped  up  to  his  chin — and  the  red  jersey 
streaked  impotently  beneath,  hurdled!  A  few 
more  steps  and  Thane  was  over  the  last  white 
line,  fair  between  the  posts.  And  there,  with  the 
same  ridiculous,  rapt  expression,  he  stood  erect, 
the  ball  under  his  arm,  his  eyes  in  the  clouds. 

All  this  the  astounded  bleachers  saw;  but 
Thane  didn't.  All  that  he  knew  was  of  running, 
with  a  longing  burst  that  came  straight  from  the 
heart,  through  a  great  silence  and  a  whirr  of  red, 
straight  for  a  vision  that  was  throned  in  the 
clouds.  And  he  was  still  there — in  the  clouds — 
two  hours  later  when,  at  the  delirious  banquet 
given  in  honor  of  the  victory,  to  the  coach's  ques- 
tion, "How  the  deuce  did  you  do  it  "  he  answered, 
"Oh,  I  just  ran  to  Her." 

Which  raised  a  general  laugh  and  straightway 
regained  him  his  nickname,  "Girlie,"  that  for  at 
least  two  hours  he  had  been  in  danger  of  losing. 


[53] 


The  History  of  Chop-Suey 
and  Fan -Tan 

"The  living-idol  Chop-Suey  sat  in  the  temple 
for  over  a  hundred  years  and  then  he  disap- 
peared, and  no  one  knew  where  he  went." — An- 
cient Chinese  Legend. 

XSAW  the  temple  myself  and  the  very 
altar  upon  which  he  sat,  so  I,  for  one, 
know  that  it  is  a  true  legend.     And 
there  are   many  poems   and   stories 
written  about  him,  one  of  which  I  have  trans- 
lated for  you,  so  that  you  might  know  more  about 
him ;  of  course,  I  have  made  a  very  free  transla- 
tion because  it  is  hard  to  do  Chinese  into  English, 
and  besides  I  wanted  to  make  it  rhyme,  since  that 
is  what  makes  good  poetry.    But,  anyway,  the  old 
poet-chronicler  tells  us  that 

"He  was  a  god  and  a  wise  old  god, 

(And  a  god  in  a  temple  Chinee)  ; 
And  he  wore  a  smile  (like  a  salted  cod 
From  out  of  the  salty  sea, 
[54] 


HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN 

And  he  blinked  at  the  punk  that  sacredly 

stunk, 
In  a  long  smoke  filigree.)" 

That  is  the  way  I  am  going  to  make  it  rhyme 
all  the  way  through ;  the  parts  in  brackets  I  really 
made  up  to  help  out,  but  all  the  rest  is  in  the 
words  of  the  ancient  author  himself.  Who  goes 
on  to  say: 

"And  he  sat  leg-crossed  in  an  age  old  squat, 

Holy  and  pensive  (and  queer, 
Taking  his  time  in  the  self-same  spot) 

For  over  a  hundred  year, 
Absolving  all  sin  (with  his  codfish  grin) 

For  a  punk  and  a  penitent  tear. 

"(For  he  was  all  that  a  god  should  be — 

He'd  swallow  whatever  you'd  say, 
Readily  granting  that  two  is  three 

If  you'd  mention  it  while  you  pray ; 
So  the  people  sinned    and    the    good    god 

grinned, 
And  the  punk- works  seemed  to  pay,)" 

Then  the  historian  goes  on  to  tell  how  there 
was  a  big  fat  mandarin  in  the  neighborhood  who 
used  to  sin  all  the  time  and  used  up  prodigious 
quantities  of  punk;  but  finally  he  got  so  fat  that 
he  couldn't  get  down  to  the  temple  personally 
[55] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

to  make  his  sacrifices,  so  he  used  to  send  one 
of  his  men  to  do  it  for  him,  with  roast  pigs 
now  and  then  as  an  extra  offering  for  special  for- 
giveness, and  the  god  used  to  send  one  of  his 
priests  up  to  the  palace  with  the  grin.  But  this 
hasn't  really  anything  to  do  with  the  main  story, 
so  I  won't  translate  it.  I  only  mentioned  it  be- 
cause the  fat  mandarin  had  a  wife  named  Fan- 
Tan  who  has  a  lot  to  do  with  it,  and  this  is  what 
is  written  about  her: 

"In  the  twilight  came  a  slant-eyed  maid, 

And  she  knelt  at  the  good  god's  shrine, 
Penitent,  daintily,  half-afraid 

Of  the  deified  old  divine, 
And  she  sacrificed  punk  till  the  whole  place 

stunk, 
And  the  god  gave  a  gracious  sign. 

"(For  he  sneezed  and  he  wheezed  and  he  had 

to  cough, 

Till  a  tear  ran  along  his  nose, 
And  hung  on  the  end  and  trickled  off 

And  tumbled  among  his  toes. 
When  a  god  does  so,  it's  a  sign,  and  you 

know, 
Whatever  you  ask  for  goes.)" 

This  is  what  must  have  happened,  for  you  must 
remember  that  the  god  was  not    an    ordinary 
[56] 


HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN 

bronze  idol,  but  a  real  live  man-idol,  like  they 
have  in  some  places  in  China,  and  therefore  he 
had  to  breathe,  and  if  the  lady  burned  so  much 
punk,  it  must  have  almost  smothered  him;  be- 
cause some  ladies  in  this  country  burn  punk  in 
their  parlors  when  they  are  going  to  have  com- 
pany, and  it  makes  the  parlor  so  smothery  and 
choky  that  sometimes  the  company  gets  sick  and 
doesn't  stay  late. 

But  anyway  the  lady  was  very  nice-looking, 
as  the  old  poet  says  in  the  following  words: 

"Ah,    she    was   a    daughter    of    old    Cathay, 

As  sweet  as  the  plum  in  spring, 
And  over  her  shoulders  her  long  locks  lay 

As  black  as  the  oo-longs  wing; 
(And    the    poet    concludes,   in  twenty-five 

verses, 
That  she  was  a  beautiful  thing.)" 

A  textual  difficulty  is  presented  by  the  line 
which  I  have  translated  "As  black  as  the  oo- 
long's wing,"  but  I  think  that  I  have  construed  it 
correctly.  It  is  quite  true  that  oo-long  is  the 
trade  name  of  a  variety  of  tea,  and  taken  in  this 
sense,  would  hardly  do  in  the  above  context ;  but 
I  think  that  our  author  does  not  refer  to  tea  so 
much  as  to  the  other  meaning  of  oo-long,  which 
is  black-dragon;  this  theory  is  supported  by  ex- 
ternal evidence,  since  black  dragons  have  wings, 
and  tea,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  not. 
[57] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 
Having  described  the  lady,  the  poet  proceeds: 

"Then  she  told  how  she'd  wed,  as  her  father 

had  sold, 

A  mandarin  fatly  antique, 
Whose  head  was  hot,  but  his  heart  was  as 

cold 

As  a  herrin's,  and  over  her  cheek 
A  hot  blush  spread  and  she  hung  her  head, 
And  faltered,  fearing  to  speak. 

"So  she  seized  some  more  punk  and  burnt  it 

amain, 

Till  the  good  god  shouted  for  air, 
And    started    him    coughing  and  sneezing 

again 

Till  the  priest  hurried  in  in  despair, 
And  gave  her  a  fan  to  revive  the  old  man 
And  water  to  pour  on  his  hair." 

"And  when  they  got  him  around  at  last" — 

I  never  saw  such  a  lengthy  old  rhymester;  I 
think  I  had  better  translate  the  next  six  stanzas 
into  prose  because  they  only  tell  how  she  con- 
fessed that  her  husband  didn't  treat  her  just  right, 
and  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  run  away  to 
America  and  wanted  the  god  to  give  her  good- 
luck  before  she  started.  And  the  god  thought 
and  thought  a  long  time,  and  thoughts  arose  in 
[58] 


HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN 

his  head  that  weren't  usual  in  a  well  constructed 
idol's  head,  and  finally  he  told  her  that  he  never 
had  had  a  case  just  like  hers  before,  and  he  would 
have  to  take  the  matter  under  advisement,  but  if 
she  would  come  to  see  him  about  the  same  time 
next  evening  he  would  tell  her  definitely  then 
whether  he  would  forgive  her  or  not.  And  the 
lady  asked  him  if  some  li-chi  nuts  would  help 
him  decide,  and  he  said  three  bushels  might,  and 
she  said  she  thought  she  could  bring  four,  and 
he  said  he  thought  she  had  better  do  so  to  make 
sure,  and  she  said  she  would  because  her  man- 
darin could  afford  that  many,  and  he  said  he 
thought  at  least  that  many,  and  she  said  all  right 
she  would,  and  he  said  alright,  and  she  said 
alright,  and  he  said  good-night,  and  she  said 
good-night,  too.  You  can  see  for  yourself  how 
unnecessary  it  would  be  to  make  all  that  into 
poetry,  but  what  comes  next  is  very  poetical,  and 
has  to  be  put  into  verse  in  order  to  bring  out  its 
beauty.  This  is  how  it  goes: 

"And    after    she'd    gone    he    thought    and 

thought, 

As  only  a  god  can  think, 
And  he  looked  at  the  stubs  of  the  punks  she 

had  bought 

With  a  reminiscent  blink, 
And  he  finally  said,  with  a  wag  of  his  head 
and  a  meditative  wink: 
[59] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

"  Tve  idled  as  long  as  an  idol  should, 

And  I've  grinned  till  I  look  like  a  fish, 
And  the  pay  that  I  get  is  none  too  good, 

Nor  all  that  a  god  could  wish!" 
And  he  sniffed  and  he  snuffed  and  impa- 
tiently puffed, 
And  finally  muttered  Tish! 

"  There's  not  enough  sin  in  this    land    any 

more, 

To  really  support  a  church, 
And  it's  getting  to  be  a  horrible  bore 

To  sit  on  the  self-same  perch 
For  a  hundred  years,  when,  from  what  one 

hears, 
If  he'll  only  go  out  and  search, 

''  'He  can  make  his  fortune  washing  clothes 

For  people  across  the  sea — 
If  I  had  a  wife,  why,  nobody  knows 

How  rich  I  might  get  to  be/ 
So  he  dreamed  in  the  gloom  of  the  silent  old 

room 
Of  the  holy  old  temple  Chinee" 

late  into  the  night,  long  after  the  last  villager 
had  put  his  squeaky  old  fiddle  away,  waiting  in 
placid  expectation,  our  poet  goes  on  to  say,  in 
stanzas  more  numerous  than  amusing,  till  the  sin- 
ful lady  returned  next  evening  with  the  four 
[60] 


HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN 

bushels  of  lichi  nuts.  I  am  going  back  to  prose 
again  for  awhile.  And  this  is  what  he  said  when 
she  came  to  the  temple  again  next  evening  with  a 
bundle : 

"Did  you  bring  those  nuts  ?" 

And  she  said:     "No." 

And  he  said:     "No?" 

And  she  said:  "No.  But  I  brought  a  four 
bushel  pig  instead.  He  looked  just  like  my  hus- 
band before  he  was  cooked." 

And  he  said:     "Is  your  husband  cooked?" 

And  she  said :  "No.  His  pig  is  cooked.  This 
was  his  pig." 

And  he  said :     "I'll  eat  that  pig." 

So  he  ate  the  pig.  After  he  had  eaten  the  pig, 
he  said:  "H'm.  Let  me  see.  What  was  it 
that  we  were  talking  about  last  night?  Tell  me 
again.  I  have  forgotten." 

And  she  said :  "I  hate  that  big  fat  mandarin 
who  is  my  husband,  because  he  looks  like  a  pig. 
Also  because  he  acts  like  a  pig.  I  think  he  is 
a  pig.  So  I  am  going  to  run  away  from  him  and 
go  over  to  California  and  get  rich.  It's  the  days 
of  '49  over  there  now." 

And  he  said :  "I'll  forgive  you  for  that  heinous 
offense  upon  one  condition,  to  wit,  that  you 
marry  me  and  take  me  along  with  you." 

And  she  said:  "You  horrid  old  thing.  You 
have  been  an  idol  for  a  hundred  years — and  how 
[61] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

could  an  old  thing  like  me  be  happy  with  an  old 
idol  like  ypu  ?" 

And  he  said:  "You  could  put  me  up  on  a 
shelf  and  run  a  temple  over  there  and  get  rich." 

And  she  looked  around  at  the  shabby  old  tem- 
ple, and  the  wizened  old  priest  who  mumbled  to 
himself  all  day  like  an  old  woman,  and  then  she 
said:  "No,  it  doesn't  seem  to  pay.  And  be- 
sides, you  are  too  old  for  even  that.  You 
wouldn't  last  another  hundred  years." 

And  he  said:  "You  are  laboring  under  a 
false  impression,  Fan-Tan.  I  have  had  the  job 
only  a  couple  of  months.  I  took  the  last  idol's 
place  when  he  died,  and  he  had  only  been  here 
a  couple  of  years,  because  he  took  another  man's 
place,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  there  were 
before  him.  Behold!"  And  he  pulled  off  his 
whiskers  and  got  down  from  the  altar  as  spruce 
as  a  kitten. 

And  she  said:    "I  am  simply  astonished." 

And  he  said:  "I  knew  you'd  be  surprised. 
Will  you  marry  me  or  will  you  not  ?  And  what's 
more,  will  you  take  me  to  America  with  you, 
or  will  you  not?  If  you  don't,  I'll  tell  that  fat 
mandarin  of  a  pig  of  a  husband  of  yours  that  you 
are  going  to  quit  his  side." 

And  she  said:  "You  had  better  not,  or  I'll 
tell  all  the  people  that  you  are  a  fake." 

And  they  looked  at  each  other  with  a  scared 
look,  and  said:  "We  have  got  each  other  in  a 
[62] 


HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN 

tight  place/'      So  they  decided  to  elope  on  the 
next  steamer  to  America,  which  they  did. 

This  is  about  as  far  as  the  old  poet  goes  with 
the  story,  and  he  didn't  have  all  the  details  that 
I  have  given  either,  but  I  have  given  you  the 
benefit  of  later  discoveries.  For  instance,  he 
didn't  know  about  the  young  man's  not  being  a 
hundred  years  old,  nor  that  the  idol  wasn't  the 
same  Chinaman  all  the  time,  because  they  all 
dressed  just  alike  and  you  could  not  tell  them 
apart,  unless  you  took  them  apart,  which  wasn't 
permitted,  and  he  did  not  know  that  the  idol 
eloped  with  Fan-Tan  instead  of  just  disappear- 
ing— all  of  which  things  are  true  and  happened 
just  about  as  I  have  set  them  forth,  and  are 
very  important,  as  you  will  see  in  the  next  chap- 
ter. He  concludes  his  history  with  the  follow- 
ing pathetic  stanzas — pathetic  because  so  true : 

"When  the  morning  came  and  the  sinners 

came 

To  the  great  god's  shrine  to  pray, 
And  light  their  punks  with  a  penitent  flame 

In  the  good,  old-fashioned  way, 
The  god  was  not  in  the  usual  spot 
As  punctually  as  they. 

"So  they  waited  all  day  until  two  o'clock, 

And  then  they  waited  till  three, 
But  he  didn't  grin  on  the  faithful  flock 
[63] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

In  response  to  their  punkful  plea  — 
And  since  the  day  that  he  went  away 
Nobody  has  heard  of  he." 

That  is  all  the  old  historian  has  to  say  about 
him  because  that  is  all  he  knew,  but  that  is  not 
all  there  is,  as  you  will  find  out  if  you  read  chap- 
ter two.  This  is  Chapter  Two  now.  I  got  the 
facts  from  Chop-Suey,  Jr.,  who  was  one  of  the 
results  of  Chop-Suey  and  Fan-Tan's  elopement. 

Well,  after  they  decided  to  elope,  they  took 
the  next  steamer  to  San  Francisco.  Now,  you 
must  remember  this  was  in  the  early  days,  when 
a  silly  old-side-wheeler  went  thumping  across  the 
Pacific  every  two  or  three  months,  and  everybody 
was  going  crazy  over  the  gold  mines  in  Cali- 
fornia. And  this  is  what  happened  while  they 
were  traveling  in  the  ship  with  a  whole  lot  of 
other  Chinamen;  but  nobody  recognized  them. 

Chop-Suey  had  brought  his  whiskers  with  him 
and  his  old  clothes  that  he  used  to  wear  in  the 
temple,  and  Fan-Tan  said :  "Why  did  you  bring 
those  things?" 

And  Chop-Suey  said:      "You  wait  and  see." 

Fan-Tan  had  brought  some  funny  looking 
cards,  about  so  wide  and  about  so  long  with  her, 
and  Chop-Suey  said  to  her:  "Why  did  you 
bring  those  things?" 

And  Fan-Tan  said:     "You  wait  and  see." 

So  the  ship  started  off  with  a  great  thumping 
[64] 


HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN 

of  her  paddle  wheels,  and  everybody  jumped  and 
thought,  "My  goodness  sakes  alive !"  and  wished 
they  hadn't  started.  But  after  awhile  they  got 
used  to  it,  and  all  went  to  sleep.  And  when  every- 
body  was  asleep,  Chop-Suey  got  up  and  put  on 
his  old  clothes  and  his  whiskers.  Then  he 
found  a  nice  solid  place  in  a  good  dark  corner, 
and  sat  down  there  with  his  legs  crossed  and  his 
hands  folded,  and  lighted  a  piece  of  punk  and 
stuck  it  up  in  front  of  him,  all  just  like  he  used 
to  look  in  the  temple.  Then  he  waited  for  day 
to  come.  And  when  day  did  come,  every  one 
saw  him  sitting  there  and  said,  "Maybe  it  is  a 
god." 

But  when  Fan-Tan  came  along,  he  winked  at 
her,  and  she  went  and  got  some  punk  and  began 
to  make  prayers  and  kow-tow  in  front  of  him. 
Then  every  one  felt  sure  that  he  was  a  holy  man 
and  began  to  do  the  same  thing.  Then  Fan-Tan 
began  to  make  sacrifices  to  him  of  her  valuables 
and  money  for  a  good  voyage  and  good  luck. 
Then  every  one  was  positive  that  he  was  a  holy 
man  and  began  to  do  the  same  thing. 

Then  next  day  it  got  cloudy,  and  then  it  got 
windy,  and  then  it  got  so  wavy  that  the  ship 
began  to  wiggle  and  everybody  began  to  get 
sick.  So  Fan-Tan  sacrificed  to  Chop-Suey  more 
than  ever,  and  prayed  him  to  make  the  storm  go 
away,  and  everybody  did  the  same  thing.  But 
the  storm  got  worse  and  worse,  and  every  one 
[65] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

got  sicker  and  sicker,  till  finally  Chop-Suey 
couldn't  stand  it  any  longer  himself  and  he  got 
so  sick  that  his  whiskers  came  off,  and  he  rolled 
over  on  the  deck  and  grunted  like  every  one  else. 
After  awhile  the  storm  got  better,  and  people  be- 
gan to  sit  up  and  take  notice  again.  And  some 
of  them  noticed  that  Chop-Suey  was  one  place 
and  his  whiskers  were  another,  and  that  he  was 
just  as  sick  as  anybody.  After  that  they  were 
not  so  sure  that  he  was  a  god,  so  they  didn't  make 
him  any  more  sacrifices. 

But  the  ship  kept  going,  until  finally  she  got 
to  San  Francisco.  Chop-Suey  and  Fan-Tan  went 
ashore  and  said :  "Where  is  Chinatown  ?"  And 
a  miner  who  was  looking  around  on  the  ground 
to  see  if  there  "were  any  nuggets  there,  said,  "Up 
that  way."  So  they  went  up  that  way  until  they 
came  to  Chinatown.  Of  course  it  wasn't  so  big 
as  it  was  just  before  the  earthquake,  and  there 
wern't  so  many  tourists  in  it,  because  this  was 
all  in  the  early  days  yet;  but  even  then  it  was  a 
good  big  place,  and  Fan-Tan  and  Chop-Suey 
were  glad  they  came. 

And  Fan-Tan  said,  "What  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

And  Chop-Suey  said,  "I  am  going  to  start  a 
temple.  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

And  she  said,  "You  wait  and  see." 

So  Chop  went  one  way  to  look  around  for  a 
good  place  for  his  temple,  and  Fan  went  the  other 
[66] 


HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN 

way  to  look  around  for  a  good  place  for  her 
idea.  Chop  was  delighted  with  the  prospect,  be- 
cause he  looked  all  around  and  found  that  there 
would  be  a  first-class  opening  for  a  temple,  as 
there  wern't  any  really  good  ones  running  yet, 
and  the  competition  wouldn't  be  strong. 

After  he  came  to  these  conclusions  he  began 
to  look  around  for  Fan  to  tell  her  the  good  news, 
but  he  couldn't  find  her  anywhere.  He  hunted 
all  the  rest  of  that  day  and  part  of  the  next,  but 
to  save  his  life  he  could  not  get  any  trace  of  her, 
and  he  got  worried  almost  to  death  about  her, 
because  he  didn't  know  what  might  have  hap- 
pened to  her.  She  was  only  a  defenseless  woman 
in  a  big  city.  But  next  afternoon,  as  he  was 
walking  along  the  street  wondering  whether  to 
commit  suicide  or  not,  he  came  to  a  door  where 
there  were  a  lot  of  people  going  in  and  out ;  when 
they  went  in  they  looked  glad,  but  when  they 
came  out  they  looked  sad.  This  made  Chop- 
Suey  curious  that  he  went  in  to  see  what  it  was 
all  about.  His  eyes  bulged  right  out  of  his  head 
when  he  got  in,  for  there  sat  Fan-Tan  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  with  the  funny  looking  cards 
about  so  wide  and  about  so  long,  which  she  kept 
dealing  out  and  maneuvering  around,  and  a  lot 
of  Chinamen  squatting  around  her  grunting  now 
and  then;  they  paid  her  to  let  them  do  this,  and 
she  put  the  money  away  in  her  pocket.  Chop 
stood  in  a  corner  and  watched  and  watched,  but 
[67] 


<& 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

he  couldn't  make  out  at  all  what  they  were  doing. 
So  he  waited  till  every  one  had  gone  home  to 
supper,  and  then  he  said  to  Fan :  "What  are  you 
doing?" 

And  she  said:     "I  am  doing  the  people." 

And  he  said:     "Huh!" 

And  she  said:  "I  am  running  a  card  game. 
That  big  fat  pig  of  a  mandarin  of  a  husband  of 
mine  used  to  make  me  play  with  him  all  the 
time,  and  then  he  would  pull  my  hair  when  I  beat 
him." 

And  Chop  said:  You  must  have  changed  the 
rules.  Every  one  is  giving  you  money  instead  of 
pulling  your  hair." 

And  she  said:  "Yes,  I  am  making  a  lot  of 
money." 

And  he  said:  "Lend  me  enough  money  to 
start  a  temple." 

And  Fan  said:  "I  will  do  that.  Only  you 
must  start  the  temple  right  next  door,  because 
it  is  very  wicked  for  people  to  gamble,  and  then 
they  will  come  to  you  and  make  a  sacrifice  to  be 
forgiven,  and  pray  for  better  luck  next  time." 

And  Chop  said:     "I  will  do  that." 

So  she  gave  him  a  pocket  full  of  money  and 
he  went  out  and  bought  some  things  and  worked 
and  worked  until  he  got  a  fine  temple  fixed  up. 
He  made  a  god  out  of  wood  and  things  like  that ; 
he  himself  was  only  the  high  priest  to  take  charge 
of  the  sacrifices  and  tell  fortunes.  Then  he 
[68] 


HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN 

started  business,  and  pretty  soon  he  had  almost 
as  many  people  in  his  place  as  Fan  had  in  hers. 
They  were  both  getting  rich  very  fast. 

But  there  was  one  thing  that  bothered  him  very 
much  indeed.  The  people  brought,  among  other 
things,  so  many  roast  pigs  as  an  offering  to  the 
idol  that  he  and  Fan  couldn't  eat  them  all  them- 
selves, and  he  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  them 
to  keep  them  from  going  to  waste.  So  he  went 
to  Fan-Tan  and  asked  her  about  it. 

And  she  said:      "We  will  start  a  restaurant." 

And  Chop  jumped  up  in  the  air  and  kicked 
his  heels  together  and  said :  "Oh,  goody.  That 
is  the  best  idea  I  ever  had,  my  sweet  Fan-Tan." 

And  she  said:  "How  much  money  have  you 
got?" 

And  he  said :  "A  barrel  full.  How  much  have 
you  got?" 

And  she  said :  "Two  barrels  full ;  that  makes 
three  barrels.  I  think  we  have  enough." 

And  he  said:     "Enough  for  what?" 

"Enough  to  build  a  three-story  building." 

So  they  did  build  a  three-story  building  and 
this  is  what  they  did  with  it : 

Fan-Tan  moved  her  cards  up  onto  the  top 
floor  and  made  two  more  sets  and  taught  three 
men  how  to  run  them.  After  that  she  didn't 
do  any  more  work  herself,  but  just  took  care  of 
the  money. 

Also  Chop-Suey  moved  his  temple  onto  the 
'[69] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

second  floor  and  fixed  it  up  more  grandly  than 
ever,  and  made  two  more  idols  and  taught  a 
man  how  to  be  a  high  priest.  One  idol  was  called 
the  pig-sacrifice  idol,  another  was  called  the 
money  sacrifice  idol,  and  the  last  was  called  the 
miscellaneous  sacrifice  idol.  The  high-priest  had 
to  see  that  the  people  obeyed  the  rules.  After 
that  Chop-Suey  didn't  do  any  more  work  in  the 
temple  himself,  he  stopped  grinning  like  a  fish, 
but  he  took  charge  of  the  restaurant. 

They  built  the  restaurant  on  the  first  floor. 
Now  there  were  three  chutes  from  the  second 
floor  down  to  the  first,  and  when  people  left  their 
pigs  at  the  pig  sacrifice  idols  feet  all  the  high 
priest  had  to  do  was  to  pull  a  string  and  they 
went  down  the  chute  into  the  kitchen  and  kept 
the  restaurant  supplied  with  meat.  When  people 
asked  Chop-Suey  were  he  got  so  many  fine  pigs, 
for  no  other  restaurant  in  town  had  such  a  repu- 
tation for  fine  pigs,  he  used  to  look  dreamy  and 
say :  "Oh,  I  shoot  them." 

When  they  left  their  money  at  the  money  sac- 
rifice idol's  feet,  it  fell  through  a  slot  and  went 
down  the  chute  to  the  cash  register,  and  kept  it 
supplied  with  small  change.  This  was  an  auto- 
matic chute,  and  the  high  priest  didn't  have  to 
pull  a  string,  because  everybody  knows  that  too 
many  cashiers  spoil  the  profits. 

But  some  people  were  so  poor  that  they  could 
not  afford  to  bring  pigs  or  money,  so  they 
[70] 


HISTORY  OF  CHOP-SUEY  AND  FAN-TAN 

brought  anything  they  could  spare,  such  as  kit- 
tens and  things.  They  could  lay  these  at  the  feet 
of  the  miscellaneous  sacrifice  idol,  and  when  the 
high  priest  pulled  that  string  they  tumbled  down 
into  a  big  pot  in  the  kitchen,  where  they  were 
all  cooked  up  together.  This  was  served  as  a 
special  luxury,  and  people  said  it  was  delicious, 
and  it  became  famous  as  "Chop-Suey's  Special," 
and  finally  people  just  called  it  "chop-suey"  for 
short. 

I  think  that  is  about  all  of  the  History  of 
Chop-Suey  and  Fan-Tan. 


[71] 


Phil 


XT  WAS  at  the  close  of  a  summer  af- 
ternoon that  I  first  saw  Phil.  She 
was  walking  alone  against  the  red  of 
the  sunset,  its  glow  gently  tinging 
her  white  blouse,  catching  in  dull  red  gleams  in 
the  dark  masses  of  her  hair.  She  passed  swiftly 
by,  not  glancing  to  right  or  left,  yet  long  after 
she  was  out  of  sight,  I  sat  and  watched  the  curve 
of  the  road  beyond  which  she  had  vanished,  to 
catch  another  glimpse  of  her  slim  figure.  But 
it  was  deep  twilight  when  she  returned,  a  dim 
figure  of  misty  white,  and  this  time  there  was  a 
heavier  step  at  her  side.  I  had  been  idly  dream- 
ing of  the  girl,  and  now,  as  I  heard  her  clear 
laugh  through  the  dusk,  it  had  to  me  a  hard,  un- 
happy sound,  as  though  she  were  sad  and  mock- 
ing herself  for  that  sadness.  But  I  laughed  at 
the  thought  the  next  moment.  My  old  maid 
fancies. 

Yet  one  by  one  the  gossips  came  back  into  my 
[72] 


PHIL 

mind  and  would  not  be  put  down ;  the  volumes  I 
had  heard  of  the  girl  during  the  first  week  of  my 
return  to  the  village  which  had  grown  up  around 
the  big  works,  my  native  village  where  all  the 
men  were  so  busy  and  all  the  women  so  idle. 
"The  preacher's  mad  gipsy"  they  called  her,  and 
at  the  name,  the  memory  of  her  father  stole  up 
to  me  softly,  the  ruddy-cheeked  boy  minister 
of  long  ago,  as  boisterous  and  gay  as  a  schoolboy, 
yet  as  gentle  and  as  comforting  as  a  nun.  It 
hurt  still  after  these  twenty  years  to  remember 
the  day  he  left  mysteriously  and  then  came  back 
with  a  young  wife — and  she  was  a  gipsy. 

They  say  she  loved  him — even  the  tongues 
which  wagged  as  only  village  tongues  can  wag, 
admitted  that  there  was  a  look  almost  of  adoration 
on  her  coarsely  beautiful  face  when  she  sat  in  a 
dim  corner  of  the  church  and  listened  to  his 
preaching.  Yet  when  two  years  later  he  died, 
she  left  her  child  with  deaf  Molly,  the  minister's 
sister  and  went  away,  and  what  became  of  her 
after  that,  no  one  ever  knew. 

And  this  then  was  Phil,  this  slender,  dark 
haired  girl  whom  I  had  seen  for  a  moment,  yet 
that  moment  had  quickened  my  roused  interest 
into  deep  sympathy  for  the  girl.  For  she  was 
beautiful  and  very  young.  Truly  she  needed 
protection,  I  thought,  as  I  heard  the  hushed 
voices  of  the  two  as  they  passed,  against  the 
thousand  eyes  which  were  ever  watching  her. 
[73] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

For  she  was  still  "the  mad  preacher's  gipsy," 
and  she  walked  all  too  often  down  to  the  river 
where  big  handsome  Dave  was  superintending 
a  new  bridge,  walking  back  with  him  in  the  twi- 
light. Dave's  father  owned  the  iron  works. 

It  was  next  morning  that  a  shadow  fell  across 
my  kitchen  floor  and  I  looked  up  to  see  Phil  in 
the  doorway.  "I  came  to  get  acquainted,"  she 
said  shyly.  "For  we  are  almost  neighbors  you 
see,  and  I  knew  you  were  alone."  The  voice  was 
uncertain,  even  timid,  and  hearing  it  I  could  see 
the  countless  other  doorways  to  which  she  had 
come  in  the  same  shy  way,  and  from  which  she 
had  turned  away.  So  my  greeting  to  her  was 
more  than  simply  cordial,  yet  as  I  took  her  hands 
in  mine  and  smiled  my  welcome,  I  felt  a  little 
cold  shiver.  Hers  was  a  pretty  face,  delicate 
featured,  and  with  eyes  downcast  it  had  the  peace- 
ful, high  bred  look  of  her  father,  but  the  eyes, 
in  spite  of  their  wide  childish  gaze,  were  the  wild, 
cunning  eyes  of  a  gipsy. 

"Did  they  tell  you  about  me?"  she  asked 
abruptly  and  like  a  child.  "Oh  I  know  they  did. 
They  watched  me  coming  here  this  morning  and 
now  they  are  watching  to  see  me  come  out  again 
very  soon — then  they  will  laugh."  She  rose  sud- 
denly and  came  close  to  me,  resting  her  hands 
on  the  kitchen  table,  her  arms  stiff.  "Oh  won't 
you  let  me  stay  here  an  hour  before  you  look  at 
me  with  hard  eyes  that  tell  me  to  go?  I  should 
[74] 


PHIL 

not  have  come,  but  Aunt  Molly  is  deaf  and  I  get 
so  lonely.  So  I  try  all  the  new  ones  that  come 
here,  only  they  all  know  about  me  before  I  come 
and  they  send  me  away.  And  the  old  ones — " 
But  here  I  had  crossed  to  the  girl  and  laid  my 
hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  at  that  her  cheeks 
flushed  and  her  eyes  grew  big  with  wonder,  and 
she  turned  and  went  back  to  her  chair  silently. 
For  a  time  she  said  nothing,  then  began  to  chat 
quietly  about  her  life  in  the  little  cottage  almost 
at  the  village  edge,  of  deaf  Molly  and  Bob,  her 
wild  saddle  horse.  All  at  once  she  paused,  her 
eyes  growing  bright  with  shy  laughter.  "Did 
they  tell  you  about  Dave,"  she  asked,  "and  did 
they  say  the  mad  gipsy  had  bewitched  him  ?  They 
call  me  mad  because  I  walk  in  the  woods  alone 
when  it  rains,  and  because  I  talk  to  Bob  when  I 
ride  through  the  streets.  Then  they  say  I  am 
like  my  mother  was,  and  they  look  as  though  that 
were  the  worst  they  could  say.  Couldn't  one 
ever  be  anything  worse  than  a  gipsy?"  And 
as  I  said  nothing  she  went  on  dreamily,  in  a 
hushed,  low  voice.  "But  I  am  not  always  like 
her.  I  am  like  my  father  sometimes.  I  have  never 
seen  him,  but  I  often  am  as  I  know  he  must  have 
been.  Oh  I  feel  so  for  a  whole  week  sometimes, 
till  the  children  begin  to  smile  at  me  on  the 
streets,  then  all  at  once  I  forget,  and  I  get  on 
big  Bob  and  fly  through  the  streets  and  sing. 
Then  I  hear  them  all  murmur  'mad  gipsy'  again, 
[75] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

and  even  the  workmen's  wives  point  at  me  to 
hush  their  children.  At  first  I  am  happy  and  I 
laugh,  but  then  I  get  lonely — "  She  stopped 
suddenly,  as  though  ashamed  for  having  spoken 
so  freely,  then  rose  to  go.  "May  I  come  again? 
she  asked,  shy  once  more,  and  as  I  nodded  smil- 
ing, she  threw  her  arms  about  me  impulsively. 
"There  are  so  few  things  I  love,"  she  said,  "only 
Bob,  my  horse,  and  Dave.  And  some  day — " 
But  here  she  laughed,  broke  off  and  skipped  light- 
ly down  the  steps.  For  a  moment  her  scarlet  sun- 
bonnet  flashed  above  the  rose-bushes  and  then  she 
was  gone. 

She  came  often  after  that,  too  often  at  times  I 
thought,  for  in  spite  of  the  little  glad  feeling 
which  was  mine  when  I  saw  her  at  the  door,  her 
talks  puzzled,  often  vexed  and  frightened  me. 
"They  don't  want  me  to  have  Dave,"  she  said 
to  me  one  day.  "His  mother  wears  silk  dresses 
and  she  frowns  so  when  she  meets  me  and  pulls 
her  skirt  to  one  side  to  let  me  pass.  Then  she 
talks  to  Dave  I  think,  because  he  is  so  cross  some- 
times, when  we  walk  home  from  the  river.  But 
I  will  not  lose  him — oh  no — only  if  they  take  him 
away.  Then  he  will  forget  me,  because  he  for- 
gets everything.  He  wanted  to  marry  the  dress- 
maker's daughter  two  years  ago  before  she  went 
away.  I  asked  him  about  her  yesterday,  because 
I  wanted  to  tease  him,  but  he  looked  as  though  he 
did  not  understand.  Then  I  turned  on  him  and 
[76] 


PHIL 

asked  if  he  had  forgotten  Polly  and  he  brought 
his  eyebrows  together,  and  then  smiled.  'Of 
course  I  remember  Polly/  he  said,  'she  was  tall, 
wasn't  she  ?'  Then  he  talked  about  his  new  dog. 
He  remembers  what  he  sees,  then  laughs  and 
whistles,  and  gets  a  new  habit,  and  forgets  every- 
thing that  was  before."  Then  suddenly  the 
harshness  died  out  of  her  voice,  and  she  went  on 
musingly,  a  very  wistful  Phil — "Well,  I  am  a 
habit  now  I  guess.  Dave  is  used  to  seeing  me 
every  day  and  he  calls  me  his  wild-eyed  beauty, 
and  says  he  cannot  live  without  me.  But  he  is 
like  a  baby,  and  maybe  they  will  send  him  away." 

These,  however,  were  Phil's  more  subdued  mo- 
ments. At  other  times  she  would  dash  up  to  my 
door,  mounted  on  big  wild  Bob,  and  talk  fiercely 
and  incoherently  as  she  did  that  day  when  the  sky 
was  black  with  heavy  clouds  and  the  yellow  trees 
were  shivering  in  the  wind.  "If  I  could  only 
die,"  she  said,  her  face  quivering,  "only  I  want 
to  pay  them  back  first.  Oh  I  know  now  that  I 
am  only  a  gipsy,  and  each  day  I  am  getting 
wilder.  Dave's  mother  smiled  when  she  saw  me 
today,  she  smiled  and  looked  like  a  snake.  They 
can't  ta.ke  him  from  me.  Or  do  you  think  they 
will?"  She  left  me  gazing  sadly  after  her,  and 
my  hope  that  some  day  the  good  tranquil  part  of 
her  nature  might  subdue  the  wild  heritage  left  her 
by  her  mother,  grew  ever  less. 

Yet  the  Sunday  that  she  came  to  tell  me  they 
[77] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

had  sent  Dave  away,  I  almost  believed  that  the 
true  good  had  conquered.  She  opened  the  door 
softly,  letting  in  the  half  distinct  sound  of  early 
church  bells,  and  she  remained  standing  in  the 
doorway,  pale  and  very,  very  calm,  a  sad  little 
smile  on  her  lips,  holding  me  off  when  I  tried 
to  take  her  in  my  arms.  Then  as  quietly  as  she 
had  come  she  turned  and  went  down  the  rose- 
bordered  walk,  and  it  was  not  till  long  afterward 
that  I  realized  how  hollow  had  been  her  voice. 
She  did  not  stop  in  for  nearly  two  months  after 
that,  yet  seeing  her  walk  past  the  gate  at  sunset, 
alone,  I  could  have  wept  for  gladness,  for  she 
ever  seemed  so  quiet,  and  often  the  words  she  had 
spoken  on  her  first  visit  would  come  into  mind — 
"I  am  like  my  father  sometimes." 

Then  after  a  time,  the  village  that  had  been 
so  strangely  silent,  began  to  whisper  once  more, 
very  softly  at  first,  then  ever  louder,  until  all 
knew  that  Dave  had  married  in  the  city.  "A 
white  girl,"  the  older  gossips  added  meaningly. 
And  still  Phil  walked  tranquilly  past  the  gate,  not 
looking  to  right  or  left.  Had  he,  too,  been  but 
a  habit? 

On  the  day  of  Dave's  home-coming,  I  went 
up  to  see  the  cottage  which  the  parents  had  so 
carefully  planned  for  the  two.  It  was  just  grow- 
ing dusk  when  I  left  them  happily  waiting  at  the 
new  gate,  almost  dark  when  I  reached  home  and 
found  the  girl  sitting  on  my  porch,  with  eyes 
[78] 


PHIL 

closed,  leaning  against  the  post,  her  arms  lying 
nervelessly  along  her  white  dress.  She  rose  to 
go  as  I  greeted  her,  and  even  in  the  twilight  I  saw 
a  gleam  in  her  gipsy  eyes  which  made  me  shiver. 
"They  just  went  by,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  was 
too  calm.  "I  smiled  at  Dave  and  he  started  and 
flushed.  He  will  find  out  that  old  habits  come 
back  sometimes."  She  laughed  a  hard,  cold 
laugh  as  she  turned  to  go. 

"Phil !"  I  cried.  "For  heaven's  sake  Phil—" 
but  she  was  already  half  way  down  the  walk.  She 
did  not  stop  to  open  the  gate,  but  like  a  young 
squirrel  jumped  lightly  upon  it  and  caught  a 
branch  of  the  overshadowing  maple  tree,  swaying 
in  jerky  movements  back  and  forth,  laughing. 
"Mad  gipsy,"  flashed  through  my  mind.  Sud- 
denly she  steadied  herself,  let  go  of  the  branch 
and  stood  an  instant  poised,  with  arms  stretched 
far  out,  like  a  great  white  bird,  then  half  turned 
her  face  to  me  and  I  fancied  I  saw  the  cruel  gleam 
of  her  white  teeth.  "Mrs.  Dave  is  white  as  a 
ghost,  and  thin,  and  has  yellow  hair,"  she  called 
out  exultingly,  then  dropped  noiselessly,  and  van- 
ished in  the  twilight. 

Even  now  the  months  that  followed  seem  years 
as  I  think  back  upon  them.  I  was  one  of  the 
first  to  call  on  Dave's  wife,  a  few  days  after  she 
came  among  us.  Phil  had  been  right — Mrs. 
Dave  was  not  pretty,  yet  after  a  minute  I  amended 
the  thought — she  did  not  need  to  be.  In  the 
[791 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

thin,  pale  face,  in  the  clear  eyes,  there  was  a 
something  so  calm  and  restful,  such  a  world  of 
sheltering  sympathy  and  yet  a  look  of  such  wist- 
ful appeal,  that  I  felt  suddenly  queerly  hushed, 
as  though  I  had  stepped  within  a  dim,  cool 
church.  "You  are  tired,"  she  said,  as  she  pressed 
my  hand,  with  her  own  so  small  and  soft.  "And 
oh  how  good,  how  very  good  you  are  to  come. 
I  want  to  know  you  all,  for  you  are  David's 
friends."  And  then  she  made  me  cozy  in  a  big 
chair  and  drew  up  her  own  low  rocker.  She 
took  my  bonnet  out  of  my  hands  and  when  I 
turned  to  watch  her  walk  across  the  room  I  saw 
her  softly  pat  the  ruffled  ribbons  into  place  and 
brush  the  flecks  of  dust  off  the  brim  as  she  laid 
it  down.  Then  she  sat  at  my  feet  in  her  little 
chair  and  asked  about  myself,  smiling  with  her 
eyes  as  she  listened,  laughing  gaily  when  I  smiled. 
The  sun  had  been  gone  a  long  time  when  I  re- 
membered to  go,  and  she  walked  out  on  the  porch 
with  me,  dropping  lightly  on  the  broad  steps. 
"To  wait  for  David,"  she  said  with  a  shy  smile, 
then  took  my  hand  once  more.  "You  will  come 
again,"  and  there  was  no  question  in  her  voice. 

Thus  Mrs.  Dave  came  among  us,  and  the  many 
tongued  village,  welcomed  as  I  had  been  wel- 
comed, first  drew  away  astonished  and  perplexed 
that  it  had  nothing  to  attack,  then  slowly  came 
near  and  worshipped  the  little  woman  as  easily 
as  I  had  done.  Then,  just  as  easily  it  turned  with 
[80] 


PHIL 

redoubled  malice  upon  poor  Phil,  and  for  once 
I  allowed  the  gossip  to  flow  in  my  presence  un- 
checked. For  as  naturally  as  Dave  had  taken  up 
his  work  on  the  river  once  more,  just  so  easily  did 
Phil  drop  back  into  her  evening  walks  with  the 
man.  Urged  by  his  mother,  Dave  had  been  cross 
with  her  at  first,  had  tried  to  speak  to  her  in  a 
straightforward  way  even,  then  had  yielded  to  the 
pleasure  of  these  walks  with  easy-going  thought- 
lessness. They  say  that  the  mother  had  gone 
to  Dave's  wife,  but  the  latter  had  lifted  her  eye- 
brows with  a  smile  and  changed  the  subject. 

As  the  weeks  passed  by,  the  voices  of  the  man 
and  girl  used  to  startle  me  out  of  my  twilight 
dreams  every  evening,  yet  in  spite  of  my  harsh 
thoughts  I  longed  to  have  Phil  drop  into  my 
kitchen  again,  to  be  able  to  sigh  and  worry  over 
her  once  more.  But  she  had  come  only  once,  drop- 
ping down  on  the  old  sofa,  just  within  the  circle 
of  light  from  my  dim  light,  wide-eyed  and  per- 
plexed. She  sat  as  though  she  did  not  see  me, 
her  face  full  of  wonder,  the  full  lips  tremulous. 
"Oh,  why  couldn't  I  be  like  that?"  she  softly 
breathed,  then  hurried  on  breathlessly.  "I  walked 
home  with  Dave  tonight  and  he  scolded  again,  so 
I  laughed  because  it  hurt  so.  Then  I  told  him 
I  would  walk  clear  up  to  his  gate  with  him; 
I  didn't  care;  I  wanted  his  wife  to  see  us.  I 
talked  in  my  loudest  voice  at  the  gate  and  I 
laughed  and  waved  my  hand  to  him  when  I  turned 
[81] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

away.  And  then  she  came  on  the  porch  and 
she  called  out  and  asked  if  I  wouldn't  stop  with 
her,  then  came  down  to  the  gate.  Her  hand 
is  tiny  and  soft,  but  it  made  me  shake ;  but  she  led 
me  in  and  sat  down  in  a  low  chair  and  talked, 
and  all  the  time  her  eyes  said,  'You  poor  thing,' 
though  she  smiled.  Then  she  called  out  to  Dave 
and  told  him  she  would  have  company  to  supper ; 
but  I  was  frightened  when  I  heard  him  coming, 
and  jumped  up.  She  put  her  arm  around  me  so 
quietly,  and  walked  to  the  gate  with  me.  And 
then,  oh,  how  I  wanted  to  come  so  close  to  her 
and  tell  her  all,  all !  But  I  pushed  her  away  and 
ran  home ;  but  half-way  there  I  looked  back  and 
she  was  standing  at  the  gate  looking  after  me, 
so  little  and  white,  like  an  angel.  No  one  ever 
talked  to  me  like  that;  no  one  ever  wanted  me 
to  stay  longer."  .  .  Here  Phil  had  left  me, 
and  I  dreamed  on,  picturing  in  my  mind  the  half- 
hour  between  these  two.  I  smiled  a  little  as  I 
rose  to  lock  the  door.  Could  it  be  that  Mrs. 
Dave  had  conquered  the  mad  gipsy  as  she  had 
conquered  us  all? 

I  believed  and  still  believe  that  Phil  had  meant 
to  try.  But  nothing  came  of  it,  for  she  and  Dave 
were  together  more  and  more.  And  one  after- 
noon Phil  came  to  say  good-bye.  "I  am  going 
away  tonight,"  she  said — "well,  you  might  as  well 
know,  we  are  going  away  tonight."  She  waited 
for  my  exclamations,  but  none  came,  and  she 
[821 


PHIL 

glanced  up,  her  white  face  full  of  uncer- 
tainty, masked  by  stubbornness.  The  eyes 
were  burning,  all  the  more  mad  because  the  fea- 
tures were  so  calm.  "And  Mrs. -Dave?  "  I  asked 
quietly.  Phil  looked  away  with  a  start.  "Don't," 
she  whispered.  "I've  tried  to  remember,  and  I 
don't  care.  She  has  everything  and  I  want  only 
him.  If  Dave  wanted  me  badly,  I  would  not  go ; 
but  I  want  to  show  them  that  I  can  have  him, 
even  though  he  be  not  willing.  He  is  a  baby 
still,  and  today  he  minds  me.  Tomorrow, — but 
tomorrow  it  will  all  be  over.  Oh,  I've  tried  to  be 
like  them,  and  they  turn  away.  I've  tried  to  be 
good  and  they  laugh.  And  Dave, — when  I  talk 
to  Dave,  his  eyes  shine  and  he  sees  only  me,  and 
then  I  know  I  am  good  and  true  and  beautiful. 
Oh,  they  will  see  what  a  mad  gipsy  can  do,  and 
let  Mrs.  Dave."  .  .  But  at  the  name  the  harsh 
voice  broke  off  and  went  on  tremulously :  "If  she 
had  talked  to  me  again  I  would  go  away  alone 
or  kill  myself;  but  she" — she  laughed  uncer- 
tainly. "I've  been  careful  not  to  talk  to  her 
again.  Yet  when  I  think  of  her  white  face  and 
her  little  hands — but  what's  the  use  ?  "  And 
when  I  had  found  voice  to  call  to  her  she  was 
on  her  big  horse,  galloping  down  the  street,  leav- 
ing me  at  the  door,  trembling. 

It  was  a  half-hour  later  that  the  workmen, 
coming  home  along  the  river  bank,  saw  her  rid- 
ing madly  very  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff  where 
[83] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

it  overhangs  the  river.  They  watched  her  idly 
enough,  mad  as  ever  they  thought,  till,  without 
warning,  they  saw  the  horse  half  pause  in  its  race, 
saw  him  wheel  and  rise  high  in  the  air,  and  then 
plunge  headlong  over  the  edge.  When  they 
reached  her  she  was  still  breathing,  and  they 
took  her  to  the  nearest  cottage  and  sent  for  me. 

They  say  big  Bob  had  been  almost  uncontrol- 
lable for  days.  The  men  that  saw  the  fall  swore 
that  the  girl  struggled  hard  to  quiet  the  horse; 
and  in  the  face  of  these  sane  statements  the 
fancies  of  an  old  maid  seem  very,  very  foolish. 

When  I  came  into  the  room  where  she  lay  I 
found  Mrs.  Dave  already  near  her.  Phil's  eyes 
were  closed,  yet  she  smiled  faintly  when  the  lit- 
tle woman  whispered  that  I  had  come.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  now,  nothing  except  to  stand 
and  watch  the  pale  face,  so  sweet  and  childish  and 
helpless  now,  so  calm  and  undisturbed,  and  very 
much  like  the  father's  must  have  been  in  death. 

Then  I  saw  Mrs.  Dave  bend  over  the  girl. 
"David  is  in  the  next  room,"  she  said.  "Do  you 
want  him  now?  "  And  as  I  half  turned,  with  my 
hand  on  the  knob  I  saw  the  slight  shake  of  the 
head  on  the  pillow,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  death- 
stilled  room  caught  the  faint  whisper,  "Only 
you." 

K. 


[84] 


The  Record  Quarter 

ON   HIS   way  to   Suburbia,    Denman 
wondered  at  himself,  and  was  of  the 
opinion  that  he  would  wait  at  the 
station  for  the  next  train  back  to  the 
city.     He  had  not  been  in  the  college  town  for 
years,  and  this  meet  that  Owen  seemed  to  think 
would  make  an  epoch  in  civilization  would  be  so 
like  the  other  meets  that  Denman  had  seen  by 
dozens,  that  it  bored  him  even  to  think  about  it. 
Ten  years  back,  he  had  seen  his  last  field  day, 
and  had  left  before  the  Relay  to  telephone  about 
an  important  deal  that  had  occurred  to  him  as  he 
dozed  through  the  Mile  Walk.     Owen  said  there 
wasn't  any  Mile  Walk  now.    That  was  sensible. 
Denman  had  never  seen  the  beauty  of  that  dis- 
locating pastime,  even  in  the  old  days,  when  a 
field  day,  a  sore  throat  from  shouting,  and  a  bad 
headache  from  excitement  always  came  together. 
Curiously  enough,  it  had  been  Owen  that  made 
him  stop  shouting,  and  yawn  through  the  races. 
[85] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

Big,  athletic  Denman,  a  well  set-up  man  at  forty, 
wondered  even  yet  over  Owen.  That  puny  lad, 
with  weak  eyes  and  a  cough  that  was  always 
hurrying  him  South  and  grudgingly  letting  him 
back  again  for  brief  weeks,  was  Denman's  son 
in  everything  but  likeness.  The  big  man  never 
looked  at  the  boy  without  anger,  disappointment 
and  pity  all  surging  up  in  him  at  once.  Where 
did  the  lad  get  his  pale  looks  and  his  confounded 
bookishness?  Oh,  well,  of  course,  Denman  was 
glad  the  boy  got  his  lessons  and  all  that.  He 
was  glad  Heaven  had  not  seen  fit  to  make  his  son 
a  dunce.  But  it  did  take  the  heart  out  of  a  man 
to  see  at  his  own  table,  day  after  day,  a  human 
being  that  took  more  interest  in  Ovid  than  in 
League  games.  Would  he  ever  forget  the  night 
when  Owen,  looking  tensely  through  his  near- 
sighted reading  glasses  that  he  had  forgotten  to 
exchange  for  his  farsighted  distance  glasses,  on 
coming  to  the  table,  had  given  his  learned  com- 
parative analysis  of  Cicero  and  Plato! 

"And  I  am  forced,"  concluded  Owen,  with  a 
shake  of  his  pale  locks,  "I  am  forced  to  condemn 
the  Roman  as  a  mere  belle-lettristic  trifler." 

Harvey  Denman  laid  down  his  napkin  and 
stared.  The  profanity  that  he  felt  welling  within 
him  he  checked  in  deference  to  Rose  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table.  But  he  could  have  been  grate- 
ful for  some  sort  of  a  seizure  that  would  have 
made  him  foam  at  the  mouth  and  throw  dinner 
[86] 


THE  RECORD  QUARTER 

plates.  Instead,  he  looked  fixedly  at  Owen,  who 
engaged  nearsightedly  with  his  food. 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  heard  himself  demand 
of  his  erudite  progeny. 

"I  have  entered  upon  my  sixteenth  year,"  re- 
plied the  boy. 

That  was  the  year  in  which  Owen  had  entered 
Suburbia,  and  had  thereby  fixed  his  father's  dis- 
taste for  the  place,  that  had  been  growing  for  the 
past  years.  When  Owen  was  little,  and  there 
was  still  hope  that  he  might  straighten  up,  his 
father  had  taken  him  to  football  and  track  games, 
and  had  felt  the  waves  of  his  own  enthusiasm 
beat  with  futile  uproar  against  his  son's  inex- 
plicable temperament.  Owen  could  sit  still 
through  the  Relay,  or  ask  to  be  taken  home  when 
the  ball  was  shivering  on  the  goal  mark.  Den- 
man  gave  up  at  last,  and  swallowed  his  cherished 
hope  that  his  son  might  some  day  be  glad  to  hear 
of  his  father's  prowess  in  college  days.  He 
hadn't  cared  inordinately  for  his  athletic  fame, 
but  the  thought  of  an  interested  son  had  always 
lain  pleasantly  dormant  in  his  heart.  Now  he 
shut  the  thought  in  with  a  snap,  and  went  to  no 
more  field  days. 

He  saw  as  little  as  possible  of  Owen,  and  at  the 
time  of  the  memorable  speech  on  Cicero,  this  din- 
ner had  been  an  occasion  when  Denman  was 
making  a  signal  effort  to  pull  himself  together 
and  understand  his  son.  After  this  failure,  he 
F871 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

agreed  with  Rose  that  the  boy  had  better  board 
in  Suburbia,  and  not  waste  his  time  traveling 
back  and  forth  to  the  city.  He  saw  Owen  half 
a  dozen  times  that  year,  and  let  him  go  off  to  the 
mountains  for  three  months  that  summer.  He 
was  enormously  busy  with  things  that  counted  on 
his  bank  account,  and  let  Owen  slip  from  his 
mind  as  much  as  possible,  until  one  September 
when  Rose  reminded  him  that  the  boy  was  a 
junior. 

"Is  he?"  asked  Denman,  absently. 

"And  I  think  the  professors  think  highly  of 
him,"  his  wife  pursued. 

"Pah!"  Denman  grunted,  with  Cicero  still  in 
his  mind.  Still,  of  course,  he  was  glad  the  child 
did  well. 

"I've  not  seen  him  since  his  hunting  trip.  What 
put  it  into  his  head  to  go  hunting?" 

It  appeared  that  some  boys  had  put  it  into  his 
head.  And  he  had  come  back  looking  brown  and 
feeling  unusually  well.  Even  his  eyes  were  get- 
ting stronger,  and  the  distance  glasses  were  put 
aside.  Denman  was  gratified.  After  all,  Owen 
might  become  human. 

He  was  not  only  gratified,  but  astonished,  to 
learn  that  Owen  took  his  mother  to  the  football 
game.  He  had  refused,  himself,  to  be  of  the 
party.  He  couldn't  forget  those  dreary  little-boy 
days,  when  Owen  recited  Latin  verbs,  while  the 
ball,  with  twenty-two  giants  clutching  after  it, 
[88] 


THE  RECORD  QUARTER 

gamboled  back  and  forth  between  the  goals,  and 
the  grandstand  shouted.  The  last  time  he  had 
taken  his  son,  Owen  had  told  him  a  great  many 
things,  on  the  way  home,  about  Roman  games. 
There  was  the  game  of  Pila — he  should  never 
again  risk  hearing  about  the  game  of  Pila.  But 
this  year,  Owen  took  his  mother,  and  she  re- 
counted her  experience  with  some  eagerness. 
Owen  had  been  interested,  had  explained  things 
to  her. 

"Did  he  talk  about  the  game  of  Pila  ?"  queried 
Denman,  in  grim  tones. 

"Pila?"  his  wife  wondered.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

In  his  office,  one  day  in  the  spring,  Denman 
had  been  interrupted  at  his  busiest  moment  by  a 
long-distance  call.  Suburbia  wanted  him.  He 
had  time  to  wonder  who  the  dickens  in  Suburbia 
had  any  business  with  him,  when  he  heard 
Owen's  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire.  He 
had  forgotten  his  son. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked,  rather  anxious- 
ly. The  cough  had  probably  reappeared.  After 
these  years  of  release,  that  would  be 

"Hello !"  sounded  Owen's  voice  again. 

"Hello!      Hello!"  impatiently  from  Denman. 

"Can't  you  get  out  here  tomorrow?" 

"Out  where?  Suburbia?  Are  you  sick 
again?" 

"No.  There's  going  to  be  a  field  day  that " 

[89] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

"A  what?     Oh,  field— no,  I'm  too  busy." 

"Oh,  but  father!"  The  voice  over  the  wire 
was  agitated.  "It's  going  to  be  a  corker  of  a 
field  day,  and  you  used  to  come!" 

"Going  to  be  what  kind  of  a  field  day?" 

"A  cork I  mean  a  most  interesting  field 

day." 

"Did  you  say  'corker'?"  interrupted  Denman. 

"I  suppose  I  did." 

"I'll  be  there."  Denman  hung  up  the  receiver, 
rubbed  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  got  up 
from  his  desk  to  walk  about  the  room.  Owen, 
his  boy,  he  of  Cicero,  the  Roman  games,  glasses 
nearsighted  and  farsighted,  and  a  profound  in- 
terest in  archaeology,  had  said  "corker."  Den- 
man felt  exuberant  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

His  exuberance  got  him  on  the  train  the  next 
morning,  and  out  to  Suburbia,  wondering  at  him- 
self, yet  not  taking  the  next  train  back  to  the  city. 
Instead,  he  looked  around  for  Owen  at  the  sta- 
tion, and,  not  seeing  him  there,  walked  up  to  the 
Campus,  past  the  Toggery,  and  the  Dashery,  and 
the  College  Bakery,  and  the  Students'  Barber 
Shop,  and  the  other  pertinent  signs  of  the  town 
merchants.  Under  the  oaks  of  the  Campus,  Den- 
man began  to  have  small  pulsings  of  a  feeling  he 
had  forgotten.  The  old  trees  had  not  changed. 
And  the  slope  of  the  hill  down  from  the  gym 
was  still  tracked  by  spiked  feet.  There  they 
came  now,  the  little  army  of  boys  in  their  white 
[90] 


THE  RECORD  QUARTER 

running  trunks  and  their  sweaters.  They  were 
going  down  to  the  track,  beyond  the  laurel 
hedge.  Denman  quickened  his  step.  He  used  to 
come  out  of  that  old  gym  in  white  trunks  and  a 
sweater.  By  George!  He'd  like  to  get  the 
things  on  again,  and  have  a  go  with  the  boys. 
If  only  Owen — his  face  clouded.  Lock  the 
thought  in  as  he  might,  forget  it,  stay  away  from 
the  place  till  he  died,  still  the  thought  was  there. 
The  boy  had  been  a  disappointment  to  him. 

He  got  a  program  from  the  usher,  and  picked 
his  way  around  the  oval  to  the  seat  he  wanted. 
There  it  was  empty,  as  if  waiting  for  him.  Just 
opposite  the  finish,  with  his  back  to  the  sun,  he 
settled  himself,  and  began  to  open  out  his  pro- 
gram. He  was  a  little  curious  about  one  thing. 
Just  then,  a  voice  beside  him  spoke  plaintively; 

"Oh,  I  wish  we  had  programs!"  Denman 
looked  up.  She  had  not  spoken  to  him.  She 
was  looking  anxiously  for  an  usher,  and  beating 
her  lip  with  nervous  fingers.  She  was  a  pretty 
little  girl  of  sixteen,  in  just  the  sort  of  new  frock 
that  the  girls  used  to  have  on  for  the  spring 
field  days.  Denman  looked  at  his  paper  with 
regret. 

" Won't  you  use  mine  ?"  he  said,  gallantly.  The 
girl  looked  at  him  and  blushed — very  becomingly, 
as  Denman  thought. 

"Oh "  she  hesitated.  "You  are  very  good." 

[91] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

She  glanced  up  the  line  of  her  girl  companions 
to  where  her  chaperon  sat. 

"I  think  I  might — I  do  want  one  terribly!" 

Denman  found  her  struggle  amusing.  She 
was  so  young  and  pretty,  and  anxious  not  to 
accept  attentions  from  strange  men,  and  probably 
quite  incapable  of  using  a  program  after  she  got 
it! 

"Do  take  it,"  he  urged,  in  his  oldest  and  most 
fatherly  voice.  She  looked  at  him  again,  and 
he,  remembering  that  the  hair  about  his  ears  was 
decidedly  grayish,  held  out  the  program  con- 
fidently. She  took  it  and  smiled  at  him. 

"I  do  want  one  so  particularly,  and  the  usher 
passed  us  by.  This  is  to  be  a  most  interesting 
field  day."  Some  way,  the  phrase  reminded  him 
of  Owen. 

"What  is  to  happen?"  he  asked.  The  girl's 
embarrassment  left  her,  and  she  gave  him  the 
serious  attention  of  a  connoisseur. 

"In  the  first  place,"  she  explained,  "the  weather 
is  just  right — warm  and  good  for  records.  Then, 
it's  the  Inter-collegiate,  and  there  are  some  un- 
usually strong  men  from  down  the  Bay — Har- 
greave  and  Thorn  in  the  hurdles,  and  that  big 
hammer  thrower — oh,  yes,  Murchison.  Then, 
my  brother  Billy  thinks  he'll  break  his  own  broad 
jump  record.  He's  been  doing  it  right  along 
in  practice,  and  we're  all  counting  on  him." 

Denman  felt  a  sharp  pang. 
[92] 


THE  RECORD  QUARTER 

"Is  he  on  the  oval?"  he  asked.  There  was  a 
company  of  Greeks  in  bathrobes  and  blankets 
squatted  picturesquely  in  the  middle  of  the  grass 
plot,  while  industrious  newspaper  men  photo- 
graphed the  stars. 

"No,  there  he  is  now,  coming  in  at  the  gate. 
Isn't  he  splendid?" 

Denman  saw  a  tall  young  fellow,  with  a  good 
head  and  a  very  noisily  striped  blanket,  striding 
down  the  track,  his  stride  shifting  his  draperies 
occasionally,  to  show  a  considerable  length  of 
white  leg.  He  was  a  fine-looking  boy,  and  Den- 
man felt  another  pang. 

"He  carries  himself  well,"  he  said.  "You 
ought  to  be  proud  of  him.  So  he's  a  broad 
jumper?" 

"He's  the  broad  jumper,"  corrected  the  girl, 
with  a  mingling  of  pride  and  mischief.  "There 
can't  anyone  around  here  touch  him."  Denman 
understood  her  feeling.  He  could  remember  the 
time  when  he  was  prouder  of  one  track  perform- 
ance of  his  own  than  he  would  have  been  over  a 
diplomatic  triumph.  He  looked  rather  sadly  at 
the  field.  It  was  gay  with  college  colors,  women's 
gowns,  the  joy  of  sunshine  and  green  dance  of 
foliage.  The  athletes  were  trailing  their  robes 
about  the  grass.  A  few  men  were  warming  up 
by  a  run  about  the  oval.  The  rooters  were  giv- 
ing the  yell  for  this  or  that  favorite.  Everyone 
laughed,  talked  and  lived  in  this  scene — everyone 
[93] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

but  Denman.  He  thought  of  Owen,  and  how 
proud  he  might  be  if  Owen  could  care  for  all 
this.  He  wondered  what  had  moved  Owen  to 
ask  him  over,  and  where  the  boy  might  be  in 
this  crowd.  The  girl  at  his  side  chattered  with 
her  friends,  and  Denman  was  moved  to  steal  a 
look  at  the  program  she  held,  to  seek  the  other 
name  of  her  Billy.  He  found  him  among  the 
broad  jumpers — William  Milvern,  Jr.  Well ! 
So  that  was  Billy  Milvern's  son.  Denman  set  his 
lips  tightly.  When  he  next  met  the  gaze  of  Billy 
Milvern's  sister,  he  smiled. 

"I  think  I  know  your  father,"  he  said.  "He 
was  a  senior  when  I  entered  here.  I've  never 
quite  lost  my  awe  of  him."  The  girl  blushed 
and  dimpled. 

"If  you  know  my  father,"  she  said,  "I  think 
I  shall  tell  you  a  secret.  I  simply  must  talk  about 
it  to  some  one,  and  I've  promised  not  to  tell  the 
girls.  A  man  who  knows  my  father,  though, 
ought  to  be  a  good  confidant."  She  laughed  as 
she  pointed  to  another  place  in  her  program. 

"This,"  she  said  mysteriously,  "is  the  sensation 
of  the  day."  Denman  followed  her  finger.  It 
was  at  the  quarter  mile.  It  had  been  his  race, 
and  when  he  sat  down  here,  he  had  been  about 
to  gratify  an  idle  curiosity.  Well,  well!  It 
was  still  his.  He  felt  a  queer  glow  of  pleasure. 
He  had  supposed  some  youngster  had  lowered 
that  by  now.  For  some  ten  years  he  had  kept 
[94] 


THE  RECORD  QUARTER 

track,  but  of  late  he  hadn't  cared.  He  wouldn't 
have  cared  now,  had  he  lost  the  record — yet  he 
was  a  little  pleased.  The  girl  was  explaining 
something. 

"You  see  that  record?  Well,  just  notice  that 
it  was  made  'way  back  in  the  eighties."  Her 
eyes  were  round  and  serious.  It  had  been  two 
or  three  years  before  she  was  born. 

"Of  course  it  has  been  broken  at  Mott  Haven 
and  some  of  the  big  Eastern  universities ;  but  it 
has  stood  as  the  Suburbia  record  for  all  these 
years."  Denman's  heart  throbbed  with  a  little 
sense  of  gratified  pride,  then  of  anger.  This 
little  girl  could  care,  when  his  own  son — she  in- 
terrupted him. 

"But  it's  to  be  broken  today." 

"You  don't  say  so !"     He  was  really  interested. 

"And  by  the  darkest  kind  of  a  dark  horse. 
It's  the  most  interesting  story  you  ever  heard." 

"Tell  me,"  begged  Denman.  If  his  colors 
were  to  be  lowered,  he  wanted  all  the  interesting 
part  included. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  "he's  my  brother's 
chum,  this  young  man.  Denman  is  his  name — 
Mr.  Denman." 

"Oh,  indeed !"  Again  he  was  really  interested ; 
but  she  broke  off. 

"Oh !"  she  cried.  "They're  getting  ready  for 
the  first  heat  of  the  hundred."  Denman  looked. 
There  were  four  bent  over  the  mark,  and  the 
[95] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

starter's  pistol  was  up.  A  sudden  gulf  of  silence 
swallowed  up  the  crowd's  murmur,  and  the  pistol 
cracked.  The  hundred  is  a  brief  agony,  and 
Billy  Milvern's  sister  had  time  for  only  one. 
little  gasp  before  it  was  over.  She  shook  her 
head. 

"No  record  there,"  she  commented.  Denman's 
nerves  were  still  tingling.  He  had  yelled  like 
an  idiot  schoolboy  at  the  finish.  He  had  his 
pencil  in  his  hand,  and  offered  to  write  down  the 
time  when  it  should  be  announced.  But  she 
begged : 

"Please  let  me.  I  love  to  keep  score."  Un- 
usual being!  He  looked  at  her  in  some  amaze- 
ment. Then  he  remembered  her  story. 

Tell  me  about  this  sensation,"  he  asked. 

"Oh  yes.  Well,  it's  really  pathetic.  You  see, 
he  isn't  strong — that  is,  he  hasn't  been.  And  he 
has  always  cared  so."  Her  wide-open  eyes 
sought  his  with  a  look  of  sympathy,  that  he  could 
answer  only  by  astonishment.  Had  Owen  cared  ? 
He  leaned  forward  a  little  in  his  interest.  The 
girl  went  on. 

"You  see,  his  father  is  perfectly  wonderful — 
at  least,  Owen  says  so.  He  admires  him  more 
than  anything,  because  he's  big  and  strong,  and 
you  always  feel  as  if  he  could  do  anything,  and 
be  a  real  king  of  men." 

Denman  stared.  "Do  you  know  his  father?" 
he  asked. 

[96] 


THE  RECORD  QUARTER 

"I  suppose  I  don't,"  she  laughed.  "But  Owen 
has  talked  so  much  that  I  feel  as  if  I  did.  You 
see,  his  father  has  been  bitterly  disappointed  in 
Owen,  and  it  has  been  too  bad  all  around." 

So  Owen  had  understood! 

"When  he  was  just  a  little  boy,  he  couldn't 
do  anything  the  other  boys  did,  and  he  was  al- 
ways sick,  and  kept  being  different  from  boys. 
And  he  knew  he  was  different,  but  he  couldn't 
help  it.  And  he  knew  it  hurt  his  father's  feel- 
ings just  to  look  at  him,  or  have  him  around." 

Denman  was  digging  fiercely  with  his  cane  in 
the  ground  at  his  feet.  The  second  heat  of  the 
hundred  came  off,  and  the  announcer  said  it  was 
done  in  ten  flat.  The  crowd  roared,  and  the  girl 
at  his  side  screamed  in  ecstasy.  But  Denman 
did  not  hear.  He  was  thinking. 

"I  don't  suppose  your  friend's  father  meant  to 
have  him  know,"  he  suggested. 

"Oh,  no !"  she  exclaimed.  "But  he  did  know. 
And  he  used  to  cry  at  night  like  a  silly  girl.  He 
had  nerves — and  he  used  to  wish  he  could  die. 
He  had  to  go  away  from  home  to  try  to  get  well, 
and  he  used  to  hope  he  wouldn't  get  well."  Her 
eyes  were  wide  again  with  sympathy.  Denman 
wanted  to  groan. 

"He  used  to  wish  he  could  be  stupid,  because 
most  of  the  boys  he  knew  were  stupid.  But  he 
couldn't  be  anything  he  wanted  to  be." 

"Poor  chap!"  said  Denman. 
[97] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

Then  they  had  no  more  talk  for  some  time. 
The  hurdles  were  set  up  and  the  two-twenty 
run.  Denman  looked  at  them  all  absently.  Sud- 
denly the  girl  turned  to  him. 

"There  he  is  now.  The  yellow-haired  one, 
standing  up."  She  was  pointing  out  Owen  to 
him.  Denman  gazed.  The  boy  had  straightened 
up.  "What  made  him  go  in  for  the  track?"  he 
asked. 

"He  came  to  college,  and  heard  about  this." 
She  pointed  to  the  old  record.  "His  father 
hadn't  ever  told  him.  But  all  the  men  here 
talked  about  it,  and  wondered  if  it  would  stand 
this  year,  and  who  would  break  it.  Some  said 
it  would  never  be  broken  till  we  had  a  straight- 
away. And  Owen  made  up  his  mind  that  if 
anyone  did  it,  he  would." 

Denman  felt  a  surprising  glow  of  pleasure. 
"Good  boy!"  he  ejaculated. 

"He  was  getting  stronger,  anyway,  and  the 
doctors  said  he  would  outgrow  his  cough  and 
things.  But  you  ought  to  have  seen  him  try!" 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?"  Denman 
queried. 

"He's  Billy's  chum,  you  know — and,  then,  he 
has  told  me  things.  Billy  says  there  isn't  a  man 
on  the  Campus  in  as  fit  condition  as  Owen.  He 
hasn't  just  run  on  the  track  like  the  rest.  He's 
regularly  trained  himself  in  the  gym,  and  every- 
where. And  nobody  guesses  it.  Everyone  thinks 
[98] 


THE  RECORD  QUARTER 

Jacks  will  win  the  quarter.  But  Billy  says — 
oh!" 

Denman  followed  her  glance,  and  caught  his 
breath.  They  were  lining  up  for  the  quarter — 
his  race.  And  there  was  Owen,  fair  haired, 
slim,  his  white  trunks  fluttering  in  the  wind,  the 
numbered  tag  on  his  shoulder  waving. 

"He's  Five,"  whispered  the  girl. 

Denman  nodded.  He  was  scanning  his  son 
with  a  critical  eye.  Owen  looked  his  training, 
and  every  fibre  of  Denman's  big  body  quivered 
with  pride  in  him. 

"I  hope  he  does  it,"  he  had  time  to  say,  before 
the  boys  got  on  their  marks.  Owen  had  the  in- 
side. The  starter's  arm  went  up,  and  Denman 
felt  the  old  sickening  heart-beat  of  expectation. 
He  could  hear  the  familiar:  "Ready,  set" — and 
the  pistol  shot.  How  well  Five  got  away  from 
his  mark.  He  had  the  lead  from  the  first  stride. 
"And  what  a  gait  he  has  on  him!"  Denman  al- 
most shrieked.  The  long,  hard  sprint  would  take 
every  ounce  of  grit  the  boy  had. 

"Keep  it  up,  there!  Good  boy,  Denman!" 
The  man  was  half  beside  himself.  Billy  Milvern's 
sister  was  begging,  "Run !  Run !  Run !"  The 
crowd  was  shouting,  "Go  it,  Tony!  Go  it, 
Jacks!"  But  as  the  widening  gap  appeared  be- 
tween the  dark  horse  and  the  others,  there  was 
a  deafening  roar  of,  "Denman,  Denman!" 

The  older  Denman  leaned  out  over  the  railing, 
[99] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

and  swung  his  hat.  He  was  running  this  race. 
Every  stride^  the  boy  took  was  his. 

"Good  boy,  Denman!  Good  boy,  Denman!" 
he  shouted.  Owen  ran  against  the  tape  a  yard 
ahead  of  the  second  man. 

"Oh!  Oh!"  screamed  Billy  Milvern's  sister. 
"He  won  it.  I  told  you  so.  He  won  it.  He's 
broken  it.  I  know  he  has."  She  had  twisted 
her  program  into  a  string.  Denman  sat  down 
shakily.  He  could  remember  the  day  he  did  it 
in  fifty-two.  That  was  in  the  eighties,  and  it  had 
stood  ever  since.  If  only  Owen  had  done  it. 
The  announcer's  megaphone  was  turning  their 
way. 

"Quarter  mile  won  by  Denman,  '05,  time  fifty- 
one  and  three-fifths.  This  breaks  the  Suburbia 
record,  held  since" — the  crowd  drowned  the  rest. 
Billy  Milvern's  sister,  wringing  her  hands  for  joy, 
saw  the  elderly  gentleman  who  knew  her  father 
leap  from  his  seat,  clear  the  railing  and  race 
across  the  oval.  He  made  his  way  through  the 
press  of  boys  that  wanted  to  shake  Owen's  hand, 
and  of  reporters  who  wanted  to  photograph  him. 
The  two  confronted  each  other,  the  man  tall, 
broad-shouldered,  grizzled;  the  boy  slight,  yel- 
low-haired, breathing  hard  from  his  race.  The 
older  man  gripped  his  hand. 

"You  young  scoundrel!"  he  said,  not  alto- 
gether easily — there  was  something  unusual  in 
his  throat.  "If  you  had  to  steal  your  father's 
[100] 


THE  RECORD  QUARTER 

laurels,  you  couldn't  have  done  it  in  better  form !" 
He  wrung  the  boy's  hand,  and  the  two  let  a  good 
many  years  slip  from  between  them  as  they  looked 
at  each  other. 

Then  the  word  went  around  that  this  was  Den- 
man's  father,  and  the  rooters  yelled  out  their 
excitement  in  shouting  for  the  two,  with  Billy 
Milvern's  sister  shrieking  an  astonished  treble  in 
their  wake. 


[101] 


"Values" 

"All  I  could  never  be 
All,  men  ignored  in  me 
This  I  was  worth — " 

— Browning. 

ON  the  sagging  gray  porch  behind  the 
feathery  green  of  the  hop-vine,  the 
boy  sat  in  the  low  old  cane-bottomed 
rocker.      His    feet    pressed    gently 
against  the  rickety  railing  of  the  porch  and  the 
rocker  hitched  spasmodically  back  and  forth  on 
the  warped,  uneven  floor-boards.     Far  across  to 
the  sunlit  crest  of  the  opposite  mountain  ridge  his 
dark  clear  gaze  lifted  dreamily,  strangely  soft 
and  wonder-seeing,  above  the  tight  curve  of  his 
mouth.     Across  and  up  to  the  gilded  tree-tops 
against  the  blue  sky,  he  sat  there  looking  for  a 
long  time,  then  slowly  his  gaze  dropped  to  the 
darker  wooded  mountainside,  then  down  to  the 
silver  willowed  creek  land  at  its  base  and  the 
[102] 


"VALUES" 

long  stretch  of  cool  green  pasture  with  the  wan- 
dering cattle  knee-deep  in  the  grass-covered 
marsh. 

"Tuesday — that'll  be  time  enough,  won't  it  ?  " 
The  rasping,  tuneless  voice  brought  his  brows 
together  quickly  over  eyes  that  fell  now  on  the 
narrow  mountain  road  and  the  sagging  gate  be- 
low its  overgrown  arch  of  rough  old  Castilian 
rose-vines.  Mrs.  Gordon  pushed  back  a  little 
her  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  from  her  gray 
temples  and  set  down  the  great  round  cloth  bun- 
dle on  the  path  beside  her.  "Yu  see,"  she  went 
on,  in  her  peculiarly  grating  half-whisper,  "it's 
only  three  days  before  Robby  goes  away  now — 
goes  away  down  to  college,  yu  know — and  o' 
course  there's  a  million  things  yet  to  do  for  him — 
all  the  little  things  yu  know — at  the  last  minute — 
cause  o'  course  I  wouldn't  want  him  to  get  down 
there  to  school  and  have  to  feel  ashamed  like." 

The  boy,  a  little  cynical  gleam  brightening  the 
dull  tightness  of  his  lips,  watched  through  the 
hop-vine  frame  the  visitor  in  the  old  buggy  draw 
up  the  reins  a  little  impatiently,  one  slender 
gloved  hand  on  the  top  support.  His  mother 
laid  her  hand,  large  and  coarse-fingered  on  the 
visitor's.  " Yu  ain't  goin'  yet  ?  "  she  pleaded  in 
her  rasping  half-whisper.  "An'  I  ain't  shown  yu 
any  o'  my  flowers  yet."  She  broke  a  rose  from 
the  overgrown  bush  beside  the  gate,  stripping 
gently  from  the  short  straight  stem  the  red 
[103] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

thorns.  "These  ain't  so  beautiful  as  what  yu  get 
down  there  to  the  city,"  she  said,  as  she  laid  it  on 
the  visitor's  duster-covered  unresponsive  lap," 
"but  they're  the  sweetest  smellin'  rose  there  is. 
They — " — her  harsh  voice  dropped  gratingly 
lower — "they  was  my  little  gal's  fav'rite  flower — 
her  name  was  Rose — I  always  liked  that  name." 
The  visitor  moved  a  little  uneasily.  Old  M'is. 
Gordon  had  been  "strange-like,"  they  told  her  in 
the  mountains,  since  she  had  lost  the  last  little 
girl.  The  visitor  had  never  had  any  children 
to  lose. 

Around  the  bend  in  the  road,  between  the  green 
pasture  and  the  old  orchard  came  slowly  a  girl 
on  horseback,  her  brown  hair  curling  softly  on 
the  bare,  bent  head.  Robby  watched  her  from 
the  hop-covered  porch,  and  the  dull  apathy  that 
had  settled  on  his  thin  brown  face  lifted  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  saw  her  straighten  in  her  sad- 
dle as  she  caught  sight  of  the  woman  at  the  gate 
and  draw  the  reins  tight.  He  had  risen  quickly 
and  stood  by  the  hop-wreathed  post  of  the  porch, 
and  the  shut  of  his  lips  was  very  bitter  as  she 
galloped  past.  But  when  she  reached  the  pine-hill 
road  beyond  she  turned  in  her  saddle.  The  slant- 
ing sunlight  rays  fell  on  her  brown  curly  hair 
there,  and  Robby  saw  as  in  a  dream  her  smile — 
such  a  dainty,  pretty  smile — and  the  little  wave  of 
a  gauntleted  hand — and  then  he  smiled  in  answer 
and  held  one  hand  high  above  his  head. 
[104] 


"VALUES" 

The  boy  sat  slowly  down  again  in  the  old 
cane-bottomed  rocker.  He  had  been  sitting  there 
on  the  hop-covered  porch,  as  now,  that  long-ago 
evening,  twisting  slowly  a  dirty  rag  into  the  hole 
of  his  ramrod,  watching  the  sunset  gilding  on 
the  mountain  ridge  opposite  narrow  higher  and 
higher  up  the  pine  depths  and  finally  leave  the 
mountain  dark  and  hazily  green.  He  had  been 
telling  himself  contemptuously  that  they  could 
not  know — those  mountain  people,  who  hated  his 
father  and  pitied  his  mother  and  thought  him 
queer  when  they  thought  at  all  about  him,  and 
who  had  kept  so  unflinchingly  what  he  had  always 
taken  for  granted  rather  than  really  minded — 
the  censure  passed  in  spite  of  the  acquittal,  on  old 
Gordon  years  before  for  the  killing.  The  dream 
of  the  vaguely  wonderful  future  had  been  in  his 
eyes  as  he  had  laid  the  gun  against  his  knee,  the 
time  after  the  far-off  school  that  his  mother 
talked  of  always  when  he  would  do  great  things 
in  the  city  and  would  come  back — perhaps — just 
to  show  himself  to  them  as  he  should  be.  Then 
the  girl  had  come.  She  had  tied  her  horse  to 
the  gatepost  and  the  mare  had  flecked  at  the  rose 
bush  tendrils  with  her  upper  lip,  then  reached 
through  the  fence  stakes  for  the  straggling  sweet 
pea  vines.  He  had  watched  his  mother,  her  wet 
hands  folded  in  her  apron,  her  sagging  skirt 
flapping  against  the  old  shoes  with  the  holes  in 
the  sides,  go  out  to  meet  her  as  she  had  opened 
[105] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

the  gate.  It  was  the  girl  from  the  cottage  up  the 
valley,  the  "green  house"  they  called  it  in  the 
mountains,  with  its  porch  where  white  ladies  sat 
and  sewed  and  chatted  all  the  long  summer. 
Robby  Gordon  had  gone  up  alone  once  before 
they  came  and  had  tried  to  look  through  the 
boarded  windows.  He  had  passed  again,  and  the 
girl  had  been  wandering  along  the  sunny  stretch 
of  road  below  the  house.  She  had  smiled  at  him 
on  his  big  horse,  such  a  dainty,  pretty  smile — 
and  he — he  had  hit  Captain  sharply  with  the 
ends  of  the  bridle  reins  and  galloped  off  in  the 
dust.  Then  he  had  watched  her  in  her  riding 
skirt  and  white  waist,  with  her  curly,  flying  hair, 
stand  there  and  talk  to  his  mother.  It  was  then 
that  the  hot,  ashamed  something  had  choked 
within  him  for  the  first  time.  He  had  listened 
to  his  mother  tell  her  about  all  the  things  that 
the  mountaineers  knew  and  despised — about  his 
father  and  how  he  had  killed  a  man  once  long 
before — "shot  him  in  the  back  as  he  sat  there  on 
the  fence  below  the  corral.  It  was  over  property, 
my  dear,"  she  had  said  in  that  half-sane  whisper- 
ingly  confidential  way.  Robby  remembered  how 
the  girl  had  shrunk  back  a  little  against  the  coarse 
green  of  the  rose-bushes.  "And  to  this  day 
Charlie  Gordon's  afraid  to  go  over  there  at  night 
by  the  woods  behind  the  corral."  He  had  half 
started  up,  then  sat  down  again,  hoping  that  per- 
haps the  girl  had  not  seen  him  through  the  hop- 
[106] 


"VALUES" 

vine.  She  had  spoken  then  hesitatingly  of  the 
washing.  Robby  had  held  his  gun  barrel  coldly 
against  his  face,  behind  the  hop-vine,  he  did 
not  know  why.  But  Mrs.  Gordon  had  answered 
briskly,  her  bright  gray  eyes  on  the  girl's  face: 
"Why,  surely  I'll  be  glad  to  help  your  mother 
out — just  to  help  her  out,  mind  yu — and  then, 
too,  I'll  tell  yu — yu  know  it  won't  be  so  very 
long  before  Robby  there  will  be  goin'  away  to 
school — Robby's  so  bright,  yu  know — and  there'll 
always  be  little  extrys  that  he  needs — yu  know 
how  it  is  yourself,  don't  you,  goin'  to  school  ? 
His  father  there,  he  don't  understand  that — 
Charlie  Gordon  don't.  It's  strange,  seem'  how 
educated  and  all  his  family  was  always — but 
Charlie,  he  don't  think  it's  necessary.  He  says  to 
send  Robby  to  ol'  Perfessor  Badger  down  here  to 
the  mill  once  a  week,  now  he's  finished  the  grades. 
But  I  won't  have  it.  'Robby,'  I  always  says,  'has 
got  worth  as  yu  might  say,  and  he's  goin'  to  go 
to  school.' ''  The  boy  had  scraped  his  heavy 
boot  uneasily  along  the  porch,  and  the  30-30  had 
fallen  to  the  floor.  The  girl  had  looked  up,  her 
curly  hair  about  her  flushed  face,  frightened  a 
little  at  the  strange,  almost  incoherent,  outburst. 
"Only  one  thing,"  Mrs.  Gordon  had  caught  her 
arm  and  Robby  had  noticed  how  she  shrank  as 
the  knotted  dirty  fingers  closed  around  her  dainty 
white  sleeve.  "One  thing  I  insist  on — I'm  not  a 
washerwoman — nor  a  laundress — yu  won't  call 
[107] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

me  that?  I'm  just  doin'  it  to  help  yu  out — an' 
'cause  Robby's  soon  goin'  away  to  school.  I 
always  say  to  Robby,  'Hold  up  yure  head  an' 
yu'll  be  ez  good  ez  anybody,  especially' — her 
voice  lowered  even  more-,  and  the  girl  shrank 
away  from  the  dark,  coarse- featured  face  as  it 
bent  confidentially  near  her,  "now  that  he's  goin' 
away  to  school.  They  won't  know  nothing  there 
about  things,  except  that  he's  a  'Gordon  of  Gor- 
don Springs' — we  had  springs  here  once,  yu 
know."  She  had  raised  her  head  proudly,  with 
its  iron-gray  hair  under  the  broad-brimmed 
calico-lined  hat,  and  had  picked  a  fragrant  Cas- 
tilian  rose,  coarsened  a  little  in  its  full  bloom, 
for  the  girl.  The  girl  had  brushed  it  softly  across 
her  lips,  Robby  remembered,  and  he  had  sat 
there,  his  face  still  red  under  the  brown,  and  his 
eyes  vaguely,  wonderingly  ashamed,  watching  the 
girl  ride  bare-headed  down  the  mountain  road, 
and  his  mother  stand  by  the  gate,  one  hand  on  her 
faded  gingham-covered  hip. 

The  boy  looked  through  the  hop-vine  lattice  at 
the  white  road,  stretching  dustily  around  the 
bend,  with  the  rugged  old  orchard  trees  drooping 
low  to  the  untilled  ground  and  the  mountains 
dark  and  thickly  wooded  behind.  Often,  after  the 
shame  heat  had  come  that  first  time,  he  had 
tramped  through  the  pine  forest  there  in  the  early 
morning,  when  the  deer  tracks  were  fresh,  and 
had  held  his  gun  barrel  close  to  his  thin  brown 
[108] 


"VALUES" 

cheek  as  he  had  tried  hurtingly  to  reason  it  all 
out.  Afar  to  the  end  of  the  valley  stretched  the 
sunlit  top  of  the  opposite  ridge  to  the  gray  cha- 
parral peak,  feathered  here  and  there  with  a 
meagre  wind-swept  digger-pine.  He  could  dis- 
tinguish faintly  in  the  evening  sunlight  the  red 
rock  trail  that  slashed  across  it  and  over  to  Lake- 
port.  He  remembered  the  long  rides  from  school 
there  over  the  red  trail  at  the  week  ends,  across 
the  ridges  of  chaparral  and  scrub-oak  and  grease- 
wood — somehow  fragrant  in  the  coming  night 
with  the  hint  of  the  blazing  day  that  had  been. 
Sometimes  at  first  he  had  ridden  back  proudly, 
his  thin  brown  chin  high  and  his  lithe  body  tense 
with  the  conscious  power  that  had  made  him  for- 
get for  the  week  the  hot  shame  and  growing  bit- 
terness. He  had  held  one  brown  hand  on  the 
pocket  with  the  report  in  it,  and  in  his  brown 
eyes,  behind  the  vision  of  the  home-coming,  with 
the  strange  old  woman  mother,  her  keen  gray 
eyes  shining  deep  and  proud  under  the  rose-vine 
at  the  gate,  and  the  surly  half-smile  from  the 
father's  heavy  sparsely  bearded  face,  as  he  would 
come  sullenly  from  the  chores.  There  had  been 
wonder  dreams  as  of  old.  But  they  had  all  known 
about  everything  in  Lakeport,  and  the  mountain 
village  remembers  longer  and  far  less  generously 
even  than  the  mountaineers.  After  that  the  rides 
over  the  red  trail,  like  the  long  week  before,  had 
[109] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

just  been  dully  bitter,  until  the  galling  brooding 
seemed  so  hopelessly  all  in  life  that  could  be. 

Mrs.  Gordon's  harsh  whisper  came  up  from  the 
rose  gate,  flushing  suddenly  away  the  cynical 
apathy  in  the  brown  set  face.  "Robby'll  be  gone, 
yu  know  by  next  week.  It'll  be  lonesome-like 
without  him — and  yet  it's  what  I've  been  workin' 
for  all  these  years — even  let  you  city  folks  call  me 
wash-woman."  She  dropped  her  rasping  voice 
confidentially.  "Robby'll  be  great  one  o'  these 
days — gov'nor  or  judge  or  somebody,  like  the 
old  Gordons  and  my  family,  too,  was.  'Aim 
high/  I  always  says  to  Robby,  'an'  you  mayn't  be 
gov'nor  but  yu'll  be  more  'n  if  you  just  set  still.' 
Robby — "  but  the  visitor  had  jerked  the  reins  im- 
patiently, and  the  buggy  rolled  along  the  uneven 
road,  out  of  sight  around  the  bend. 

The  last  night  they  sat  in  the  old  parlor — "in 
honor  of  Robby's  goin'  away  to  sech  fine  other 
parlors,"  Mrs.  Gordon  said — with  the  stained 
papered  walls,  covered  with  family  crayons  and 
the  three  wild-cat  skins  the  boy  had  gotten  when 
he  had  just  learned  to  hunt.  Charlie  Gordon 
sat  for  a  while  in  the  kitchen  just  beyond,  in  his 
own  chair  by  the  bare,  clean  table;  then  he  rose 
and  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  his 
burly  form  in  its  black  shirt  and  overalls  dark 
against  the  yellow  lamplight  of  the  kitchen.  His 
wife  sat  mending  by  the  old  marble-topped  table, 
with  its  white-shaded  tarnished  lamp,  and  Robby 
[110] 


"VALUES" 

lay  on  the  old  tidy-covered  sofa.  "Ain't  yu 
pretty  near  thru'."  The  man's  gruff  voice  held 
such  an  evident  attempt  to  join  in  the  meagre 
little  family  life  there  in  the  shabby  room  that  the 
woman  looked  up  surprised.  There  was  seldom  a 
word  spoken  between  the  three — the  man  in  his 
great,  surly  loneliness,  with  his  small  blue  eyes 
and  thin  yellowed  beard,  the  woman  with  her  gray 
sharp  eyes  and  strong,  rather  florid,  features  and 
a  color  in  her  cheeks  that  even  the  mountain  sun 
had  not  faded  into  yellowness,  and  the  boy,  dark 
and  tall  and  thin,  with  his  eyes  that  dreamed  won- 
der things  at  moments  and  at  others  rested  apa- 
thetic above  the  cynical  line  of  his  mouth.  "Of 
course  not,"  she  answered  sharply.  Then  her 
voice  softened.  "Yu  might  ez  well  set  down. 
This  is  the  last  time  Robby'll  be  here  before  he's 
the  gov'nor  or  somethin'.  He'll  be  somebody 
worth  lookin'  up  to  down  there  in  college,  Robby 
Gordon  will ! " 

All  the  woman's  dreams  and  his  of  the  old 
times  had  come  back  with  the  eagerness  that  came 
to  the  boy  with  the  departure  time.  The  cows 
had  come  to  the  corral  gate  in  the  early  morn- 
ing and  stood  there  by  the  fence  as  the  stage 
drove  up.  Unheeding,  Mrs.  Gordon  had  lifted 
the  queer  little  old  trunk  through  the  gate,  push- 
ing aside  her  husband's  unaccustomed  help.  Then 
she  stood  by  the  rose  arch,  rolling  in  her  square, 
short  ringers  the  red  buds  that  she  tore  from  the 
{111] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

old  bush.  The  boy  had  glanced  only  half-seeing 
at  the  little  old  gray  shanty  with  the  hop-covered 
porch  backed  up  against  the  pine  mountain,  down 
at  his  father  standing  sullenly  back  a  little,  and 
then  at  the  square,  ungainly  woman's  figure  far 
below  the  high  seat  on  the  stage's  dusty  top,  and 
then  had  not  heard  the  last  husky,  "Good-bye, 
Robby,"  for  his  eyes  were  far  ahead  on  the  wind- 
ing, white,  dusty  road  that  led  far  down  the 
mountains. 

The  college  campus  was  brown  against  the  low 
brown  hills  when  the  mountain  boy  first  came. 
He  walked  slowly  for  the  first  time  up  the  broad 
acacia-lined  path  and  held  his  head  very  high 
above  his  celluloid  collar  and  scanty  blue  serge 
suit.  The  great  hurrying  crowds  were  all  new 
and  strange,  merry  in  friendly  greeting  and  vi- 
brant fairly  with  the  pulse  of  the  coming  year 
of  work  and  play.  It  seemed  so  full  and  big,  a 
new  world,  so  complete  in  its  self-sufficiency — 
that  impressed  him  even  then.  He  was  not  yet  of 
it — he  had  stood  aloof  thus  in  the  mountain 
school-yard — but  now  he  held  his  head  high  as  he 
watched  the  throng.  They  did  not  know  of  him 
and  the  unfaltering  mountain  stigma — nor  did 
they  care — and  he  was  glad  for  the  moment  of 
loneliness  that  seemed  to  him  to  hold  forth  so 
much.  In  his  bare-walled,  third  floor  room,  the 
light  from  the  western  gable  window  softening  a 
little  the  gray  plastered  corners,  he  laid  on  the 
[112] 


"VALUES" 

table  the  books  he  had  bought.  Through  the 
other  square  pane  he  looked  far  across  the  house- 
tops to  the  red  clock-tower  in  the  college  library, 
dimly  burnished  in  the  sunset,  to  the  eucalyptus 
trees  beyond  and  the  bare  brown  hill  with  its 
great  gold  C  clearly  outlined  against  the  blue 
sky.  Then  he  smoothed  his  brown  parted  hair 
before  the  little  mirror,  rubbed  with  his  handker- 
chief a  speck  from  the  celluloid  collar  and  drew 
a  long,  strangely  happy  breath.  At  the  boarding- 
house  table  that  night  they  talked  of  many  things 
and  many  people — the  last  student  body  election 
and  the  new  athletic  president,  of  the  college 
papers  and  their  editors  and  finances,  of  the 
dances  soon  to  come,  and  the  prettiest  girls  in 
the  Freshman  class.  Robert  Gordon  sat  at  one 
corner  of  the  long  table  and  listened  with  eyes 
that  shone  bright  in  his  thin  brown  face.  Then 
he  sat  on  the  bed  in  his  low-eaved  room  and  told 
over  to  himself,  reverently  almost,  as  one  might 
a  rosary,  every  face  and  smile  and  word  of  the 
day." 

It  was  a  warm,  clear  August  morning,  the  day 
of  the  Freshman  rally,  and  the  Golden  Gate  was 
blue  and  Tamalpais  boldly  outlined  from  the 
Library  steps.  The  cards  tacked  up  about  the 
campus  said,  "Freshie,  get  wood !  "  and  with  the 
new  thrill  of  fellowship  the  term  gave,  he  had 
started  out  in  the  morning.  He  was  at  the  door 
when  the  first  letter  came  from  the  mountains, 
[113] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

and  with  a  little  tightening  of  his  lips  and  squar- 
ing of  his  shoulders  he  thrust  the  envelope  into 
his  pocket.  Sometimes  it  was  hard  to  forget 
things  so  determinedly  as  he  had  done  during 
those  two  weeks.  But  in  the  vibrant  clearness  of 
the  night,  there  in  the  great  stone  amphitheatre, 
with  the  long  "oskis"  and  songs  re-echoing  from 
the  hills  behind  and  the  bonfire  hotly  bright  in  the 
center,  the  applauded  words  of  the  coatless 
speakers  on  the  box  below  and  the  great  dark 
crowds  above,  the  big,  self-sufficient  college  world 
belonged  to  him  again,  and  he  yelled  very  loud 
with  the  rest.  It  was  as  they  were  all  riling  out 
of  the  gates  in  the  coiling  serpentine  past  the 
waiting  crowds  that  he  saw  the  girl's  face,  deli- 
cately pretty  under  the  great  plumed  hat,  as  it 
had  been  beneath  the  sunbonnet  in  the  mountains. 
She  did  not  see  him,  but  he  dreamed  vaguely  of 
the  face  that  night. 

The  next  morning  he  read  the  letter  from  home 
— a  meagre,  misspelled  letter  that  was  like,  some- 
how, the  monotonously  rasping  whisper  of  his 
mother's  voice.  She  was  lonesome,  she  said,  and 
sick,  and  his  father  was  as  sullen  as  ever.  One  of 
the  cows  had  died  the  night  before,  because  she 
had  not  been  able,  and  Charlie  Gordon  had  been 
afraid  to  go  out  to  the  corral  to  it  in  the  night. 
A  little  strange  wave  of  pity  for  the  old  woman 
back  there  in  the  mountains  came  to  him  as  he 
read.  Then  his  mouth  tightened  with  the  old 
[114] 


"VALUES" 

bitterness,  and  he  went  slowly  down  stairs  and 
out  into  the  elm-lined  street.  He  failed  in  course 
after  course  that  day,  and  felt  for  the  first  time  in 
the  passing  throngs  up  the  acacia-lined  path  be- 
tween hours,  the  old  hurting  aloofness.  How 
foolish  it  had  been  for  him  to  think  he  could 
belong  to  it  all,  to  ever  dare  think  that  some  time 
he  might  be  able  to  help  and  to  be  worth  while  in 
the  so-big  world,  college  or  after.  In  the  old- 
time  bitterness  he  recalled  the  loneliness  of  the 
past  weeks,  the  emptiness  of  the  hand-clasps  and 
passing  smiles  that  he  had  exaggerated  into  fel- 
lowship, and  his  face  flushed  at  his  own  presump- 
tion in  so  construing  them  up  there  in  the  eve- 
nings in  the  gray  low-eaved  room. 

One  day  he  overheard  the  boys  at  his  table 
speak  slangily  of  "rough-necks,"  and  he  did  not 
know  why,  his  own  face  flushed  at  the  words. 
Another  time  he  heard  a  laughing  remark  from 
the  group  of  girls  in  the  corner  of  the  sitting- 
room  after  dinner,  and  he  turned  angrily,  dumbly, 
to  the  door,  trying  to  seem  as  if  he  had  not  heard. 
The  next  morning  he  spent  his  last  quarter  for 
two  collars  that  were  not  celluloid.  He  did  his 
work  dully,  and  felt  vaguely  that  he  was  getting 
far  behind  the  others,  and  then  one  day  the  boss 
in  the  bookstore  where  he  worked  told  him  that 
he  would  not  need  him  again.  "Why  don't  you 
smile  sometimes?"  the  man  said,  as  he  dismissed 
him.  "You'll  get  a  job  quicker  if  you  do." 
[115] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

The  boy  glanced  a  little  contemptuously  down 
at  the  jovial  man  before  him,  then  went  out  into 
the  street.  To  him  came,  as  it  had  of  late,  a  wild 
longing  for  the  mountains  and  the  pine  forests 
and  the  chaparral.  Then,  as  he  walked  along 
the  busy  main  street,  he  saw  the  girl  coming. 
Her  face  was  daintily,  rosily  pretty  as  ever  above 
her  furs  and  she  talked  quickly  to  the  tall  man — 
the  Student  Body  president  it  was — beside  her. 
She  had  a  rose  that  she  held  to  her  lips,  as  she 
had  that  old  Castilian  one  from  the  arch  over 
the  gate.  With  his  hand  to  his  hat  he  looked 
straight  at  her  as  they  passed.  "Who  was  that 
fellow  who  stared  so  ?  "  he  heard  the  president 
ask.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  the  girl  laughed, 
the  rose  still  pressed  softly  to  her  parted  lips. 

The  telegram  came  the  next  morning.  Charlie 
Gordon  must  have  ridden  most  of  the  night  to 
Lakeport  to  send  it.  Somehow  the  boy  thought 
of  that  most  as  he  packed  the  old  trunk  in  the 
corner  of  the  gray-walled  room,  and  then,  during 
the  long  ride  on  the  train,  and  then  on  far  into 
the  night,  silently  beside  the  stage  driver.  And 
the  other  memory  that  came  to  him  was  of  his 
mother,  standing  with  her  hands  folded  in  her 
apron,  her  old  straw  hat  pushed  back  from  her 
broad  forehead,  and  piercing  gray  eyes.  "Aim 
high,  as  I  always  says  to  Robby — yu  know 
Robby'll  be  somebody  worth  while." 

At  the  old  gate  with  the  rose  bush  over  it, 
[116] 


"VALUES" 

Charlie  Gordon  came  out  to  meet  him.  "I'll  carry 
that  in  fer  yu,"  he  said,  and  led  the  way  into  the 
cluttered  little  old  parlor.  The  strange,  indefin- 
able something  that  hovers  over  all  the  homeliest 
places  and  people  when  death  has  come  near 
seemed  very  real  there. 

It  was  not  until  after  the  funeral  that  they 
spoke  of  the  dead.  They  were  walking  slowly 
up  the  mountain  road  in  the  evening.  "I  s'pose 
you'll  go  back,"  the  man  said;  "the  last  thing 
she  said  was  about  you  and  how  fine  you  must  be 
doin'  down  there  to  college.  'He'll  aim  high/  she 
said,  'Robby  will,  an'  he'll  be  worth  somethin'  !  " 

The  boy  looked  out  to  the  mountain  tops  at  the 
end  of  the  valley,  hazy  blue  in  the  distance.  "I 
guess  I  haven't  been  worth  much  to  any  but  her," 
he  said,  but  there  was  no  bitterness  in  his  voice  ; 
"but  maybe  that  counts  more  than  it  would  to 
other  people.  College  is  good  down  there  —  if  I 
went  back  I'd  make  up  considerable  for  lost 
time."  He  paused  a  little  wistfully.  Then  he 
raised  his  head  high  and  looked  straight  at  his 
father.  "But  there's  the  range  here,  and  the 
cattle,  and  the  name.  I  think  I'll  make  myself 
worth  while  here,"  he  said. 


[117] 


All  In  the  Play 

SPRIGGS    MAKES    HIS    BOW    TO    THE    BEST    SOCIETY 


thought  of  having  amateur  theatri- 
cals  because  of  Dolly  Appleton's  Mrs. 
Maguire.  She  needed  clothes  and 
things  for  the  winter.  Dolly?  The 
idea  of  Dolly  needing  anything  —  with  her  allow^ 
ance  !  No  it  was  Mrs.  Maguire  —  coal  and  every- 
thing like  that;  and  we  thought  it  would  be 
splendid  to  give  an  entertainment  and  get  them 
for  her  with  the  profits. 

So  Dolly  had  some  of  the  dearest  tickets  made, 
all  frosted  with  artificial  snow  —  because  we  de- 
cided to  have  it  New  Year's  Eve.  Oh,  Dolly's 
executive  —  she  gets  that  from  her  blood.  You 
know  she's  the  youngest  vice-president  the 
Daughters  of  the  Ancient  Dames  ever  had.  So 
she  went  ahead  with  the  arrangements.  George 
Rockwell  helped  her,  and  they  asked  the  rest  of 
us  to  take  part. 

But  the  trouble  was  we  didn't  have  anything  to 
[118] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

play,  and  we  met  several  times  and  couldn't  de- 
cide. Abigail  Havens  (she's  from  Pittsfield) 
suggested  Mrs.  Jarley's  Wax  Works,  and  Billy 
Fillston  wanted  something  with  a  musical  sex- 
tette  and  coon  songs  in  it.  But  Dolly  wanted  a 
play  with  a  love  story  (because,  of  course,  she 
and  George  were  to  play  leading  parts).  So 
everybody  argued  and  argued,  and  all  the  time 
the  date  was  getting  nearer  and  nearer,  and  all 
the  tickets  sold,  too ! 

Finally  George  hit  on  a  splendid  plan.  He 
knew  of  a  person,  he  said,  that  could  give  us  just 
what  we  wanted.  His  name  was  Spriggs,  and 
George  had  known  him  at  college.  It  seems  that 
he  was  in  New  York  trying  to  sell  a  play  he  had 
written  and  George  had  met  him  accidentally  on 
the  street.  So  we  decided  to  have  him  let  us 
use  it. 

It  was  our  fourth  meeting  when  Spriggs  came, 
and  he  was  such  a  curious-looking  fellow.  He 
was  tall  and  thin,  and  wore  spectacles.  His  hair 
was  brown  and  came  down  over  his  coat  collar. 
His  eyes  were  brown,  too,  and  rather  attractive, 
I  thought.  But  his  coat — you  should  have  seen 
it !  It  was  one  of  those  short  cutaways  that  had 
faded  to  a  sickly  green.  And  when  he  was  shown 
in  he  stopped,  awfully  confused.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  was  because  we  were  in  evening  dress 
or  because  Billy  Fillston  was  being  an  Indian 
[119] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

idol  on  top  of  the  piano.  But,  anyway,  we  soon 
saw  that  he  wasn't  going  to  let  us  have  the  play. 

He  had  it  in  his  hand  and  held  it  close  (just  as 
if  the  old  thing  was  precious),  and  began  by  say- 
ing he  knew  it  was  an  honor  we  had  bestowed, 
but  that  he  didn't  think  his  play  would  suit  us. 

"Can  I  wear  white  in  my  part?  "  asked  Dolly. 

He  looked  rather  puzzled.  "I  suppose  you 
can." 

"Then  it'll  be  all  right,"  she  said. 

That  seemed  to  bewilder  him  a  little  more,  and 
he  blurted  out  that  really  he  wasn't  sure  that  he 
wanted  his  play — what  did  he  call  it — oh,  yes, 
"produced"  by  amateurs. 

Of  course  that  disappointed  us  dreadfully,  but 
you  don't  discourage  Dolly  easily.  She  got  up 
and  walked  over  to  the  Spriggs  person.  He 
looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  run,  but  he  didn't,  and 
when  she  got  real  close  she  looked  at  him  with 
those  eyes  of  hers  and  she  trembled  her  mouth 
( I  mean  it  that  way :  Dolly  can  tremble  or  dimple 
just  when  she  wants  to) — she  trembled  her  mouth 
and  looked  at  him,  oh,  so  pitifully. 

"You  won't  let  us  have  it  ? "  she  said. 
"Really  ?  "  And  there  was  the  biggest  kind  of  a 
tear  in  her  voice. 

Well,  that  rather  floored  him,  and  he  looked 
perfectly  helpless.  Then  he  stammered,  "I — I — I 
didn't  know  it  mattered  much." 

"Matter  ?  »  S3i{^  Dolly,  coming  all  the  closer  to 
[120] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

him  (George  had  gone  outside  just  then  to  give 
the  butler  an  order)  :  "Mrs.  Maguire's  life  de- 
pends upon  it."  And  she  told  it  so  beautifully  we 
all  came  very  near  crying,  and  I  saw  Spriggs 
swallow  twice. 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Spriggs,  "in  that  case  you  can 
have  it."  And  just  then  Billy  Fillston  almost 
spoiled  everything  by  pretending  he  was  over- 
come and  falling  off  the  piano. 

But  Dolly  clapped  her  hands  and  fairly  danced, 
she  was  so  happy.  Then  George  came  in,  and 
they  dragged  Spriggs  into  a  chair  and  made  him 
read  the  play. 

Really,  I  don't  know  yet  what  the  whole  thing 
was  about — oh,  yes,  it  was  something  about  a 
poor  inventor  who  was  swindled  out  of  his  thing- 
um-a-jig  by  somebody  he  called  "a  bloated  preda- 
tory plutocrat,"  whatever  that  means — I'm  sure 
I  hadn't  the  least  idea.  Anyway,  Spriggs  chose 
Ezra  Tubble  for  that  part,  because  he  is  fat ;  and 
Harry  (who  knew  something  of  what  Spriggs 
meant)  said  all  Ezra  had  to  do  was  to  look  mean 
and  prosperous.  And  the  rest  of  the  play  ?  Well, 
Dolly  loved  George,  and  Tubble  was  against  her 
marrying  him  because  George  was  poor. 

But  George  isn't,'  you  know,  arid  Ezra  doesn't 
object,  really.  It  was  only  all  in  the  play — while 
Ezra  was  the  plutocrat  thing.  Well,  anyway, 
some  of  it  was  extremely  serious — because 
Spriggs  said  so  when  Harry  kept  laughing  at 
[121] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

what  he  thought  was  a  joke.  It  was  something 
about,  "I  only  ask  a  fair  valuation  of  my  property 
from  you" — you  was  the  plutocrat.  And  Harry 
said  he  knew  it  was  a  joke,  because  his  father 
(who  is  "Old  Worthing,"  you  know)  "made  a 
combination  and  bought  out  all  the  other  soap 
fellows  when  they  couldn't  stand  the  competi- 
tion." Perhaps  you  understand  that.  I  don't. 
It's  something  about  business.  But  Spriggs  said 
"fair  valuation"  was  serious,  and  so  Harry  kept  a 
straight  face.  Dolly  ordered  him  to. 

When  he  was  finished,  Grace  Emmonds 
wanted  to  drop  out  because  she  had  to  wear  a 
rag  dress  in  the  second  act,  and  tried  to  get 
Spriggs  to  make  it  at  least  tusser.  He  said  that 
would  spoil  everything.  "Whoever  saw  tusser  in 
a  poor  workingman's  home  ?  " 

"Sure  thing,"  chimed  in  Billy.  "Remember, 
girls,  the  last  time  we  went  down  to  Mrs. 
Maguire's — her  taffeta  silk,  and  little  Mag  eating 
fried  oysters  for  breakfast?" 

This  seemed  to  excite  the  Spriggs  person.  "I 
know,"  he  said,  "there  is  frequent  improvidence 
among  the  poor,  but  that  is  the  result  of  their 
having  been  ground  down  and  denied  the  educa- 
tion that  is  their  right."  And  do  you  know,  he 
really  looked  not  frightened  any  longer — more 
like  he  wanted  to  hit  Billy. 

But  Dolly  broke  in:  "Is  that  in  the  play?"  she 
asked  sweetly.  Spriggs  stopped  abruptly  and 
[122] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

looked  at  her.  Dolly  drooped  her  eyelids  a  couple 
of  times. 

"No,"  he  said. 

"Well,  then  go  right  on,"  she  commanded,  and 
he  did — just  as  meek  as  could  be. 

And,  then,  it  was  such  fun.  Of  course,  Gladys 
Weller  made  trouble  when  she  saw  that  she  had 
only  two  pages  to  say.  But  when  she  found  Gid 
Van  Styne's  part  was  about  the  same  and  they 
would  have  lots  of  idle  time  together  she  hadn't 
another  word  of  objection.  But  it  was  such  fun. 
The  Spriggs  chap  was  so  worried  about  it  all. 

Of  course,  it  was  Dolly  who  saved  the  whole 
matter,  for  she  straightened  out  everything. 
Once  I  had  told  Spriggs  that  I  didn't  under- 
stand— it  was  something  about  "idle  rich"  and 
"their  duties." 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  he  said,  turning  on  me 
fiercely. 

"Why  'of  course'?"  I  asked.  I  wasn't  going 
to  let  any  person  in  a  green  cutaway  talk  to  me 
that  way. 

"Because  you  are  the  idle  rich  yourselves,"  he 
answered. 

Actually! — now  what  do  you  think  of  that !  If 
he  could  see  us  and  the  things  we  have  to  do — 
the  Kennel  Club,  the  Horse  Show,  dinners  and 
dances  and — oh,  dear  me!  the  no  end  of  things 
that  simply  wear  us  out. 

But  before  I  could  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind 
[123] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

it  came  out  all  right,  because  Billy  Fillston  pre- 
tended it  was  a  song,  and  sang  it  while  he  danced 
a  cake-walk  with  Mrs.  Appleton's  monkey : 

"We  are  the  idle  rich, 
We  are  the  idle  rich, 
Old  Monkey-doo  and  I !  " 

And  Dolly  smoothed  it  over. 

When  he  went  that  night  we  got  the  old  play 
away  from  him  and  had  the  parts  copied  and  they 
were  ready  the  next  time  he  came.  That  was  for 
the  first  rehearsal,  and,  do  you  know,  there  was 
such  a  change  in  him — his  shoes  were  polished, 
he  had  a  clean  collar,  his  long  hair  was  brushed 
almost  smooth — except  where  part  of  his  hair 
stuck  up  behind.  (Billy  Fillston  pretended  he 
was  a  quail,  when  he  wasn't  looking.) 

I  soon  found  out  why  he  was  different.  Don't 
you  see  ?  Dolly  had  had  him  up  one  evening  and 
"Dolly-ized"  him.  I  don't  know  what  that  is,  but 
George  says  it's  calculated  to  make  any  man 
jump  through  hoops  the  rest  of  his  life  whenever 
she  cracks  the  whip;  and  he  ought  to  know. 
He's  been  doing  it  the  last  two  years. 

Anyway  there  was  a  different  look  in  Spriggs' 
eyes  whenever  he  looked  at  Dolly  that  night.  I 
guess  he  had  never  met  one  of  those  bubbly-fluffy 
girls  like  Dolly  in  all  his  life,  and  I  suppose,  too, 
that  she  didn't  tell  him  why  she  wanted  to  play 
opposite  to  George. 

[124] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

Well,  the  rehearsals  went  fine,  except  that 
Spriggs  nearly  fainted  when  we  just  mentioned 
that  perhaps  we  could  put  a  topical  song  in  the 
"big  strike  scene,"  as  he  called  it.  Spriggs  was 
all  red  in  an  instant. 

"If  that's  the  way  you  take  it,"  he  said,  "we'd 
better  stop  right  now." 

"What?  "  said  Dolly;  "with  all  my  tickets  sold 
• — and  Mrs.  Maguire  and  everything !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Spriggs,  getting  quite  white  around 
the  mouth. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Dolly,  "because — because — I 
— I  asked  mamma  yesterday  to  have  Mr.  Con- 
stein  come  to  see  the  play,  and  he  is  the  big  opera- 
house  manager,  you  know." 

Spriggs  got  red  again.  He  walked  over  close 
to  her  and  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"You  did  that,"  he  almost  gasped,  "for  me?  " 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Dolly ;  "mamma's  one  of  the 
biggest  subscribers,  you  know,  and  perhaps  we 
can  get  our  scenery  from  him,  too." 

"Scenery  from  the  opera  house ! "  gasped 
Spriggs. 

"Yes,  if  they  can  cut  it  down  to  fit  the  drawing- 
room,"  said  Dolly. 

Sprigg's  face  fell.  "Oh,  impossible,"  he  said. 
And  it  didn't  cheer  him  up  any  when  Billy  Fillis- 
ton  suggested  that  perhaps  Rose  Douglas,  the 
miniature  painter,  could  get  something  up.  He 
didn't  like  Billy,  anyway. 
[125] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

At  any  rate,  the  effect  seemed  good,  because 
he  didn't  get  mad  any  more  if  we  were  missing 
just  when  we  ought  to  have  come  in  on  the  stage. 
No,  not  even  when  he  found  Gid  and  Gladys 
snuggled  up  in  a  seat  under  the  steps  in  the  hall. 
(Once  before  he  had  fussed  so  that  Mrs.  Corn- 
stock,  the  chaperon,  just  had  to  take  notice, 
though  goodness  knows  where  she  was  most  of 
the  time.)  Yes,  after  that  stroke  of  Dolly's  about 
the  opera-house  manager  things  moved  right 
along,  though  it  did  disappoint  him  dreadfully 
that  we  preferred  bridge  to  rehearsing  two  dif- 
ferent nights.  Wasn't  he  funny? 

And  once  I  caught  Dolly  reading  a  piece  of 
paper  that  had  some  poetry  on  it.  I  know  he 
wrote  it,  but,  of  course,  she  said  it  was  the  pre- 
scription for  a  new  skin  food. 

"Look  here,  Dolls,  old  girl,"  I  said,  "this  long- 
haired specimen  won't  match  with  the  others  in 
your  collection.  Look  out !  " 

"The  idea !  "  said  Dolly.  "I  have  to  be  nice  to 
him  because  of  poor  Mrs.  Maguire.  If  you  want 
things  to  fall  through  now  just  say  so,  Jenny 
Milbank.  Let  her  starve — I'm  willing.  Poor 
thing ! "  And  she  began  trembling  her  lips. 

Well,  who  could  answer  anything  like  that — 
especially  Dolly  like  that.  I  simply  hummed 
"What's  the  Matter  With  the  Moon  Tonight?" 
and  dropped  it. 

That  was  not  all  our  troubles.  Gid  Van  Styne 
[126] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

kept  forgetting  his  part  and  would  make  up  long 
speeches  that  he  thought  ought  to  fit,  and  that 
just  paralyzed  Spriggs. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  "don't  you  see?  You  say 
it  like  this" — and,  oh,  he  looked  terrible — "/  am 
fighting  for  my  home,  my  little  ones  and  the 
bread  for  their  mouths"  and  Gid  had  only  said 
biscuits. 

Billy  Fillston  suggested  why  not  champagne, 
too,  but  Spriggs  ignored  him,  so  Billy  wandered 
out  to  drown  his  disappointment,  he  said. 

Gid  asked  how  he  could  remember  every  little 
word,  and  Spriggs  said  he  hoped  Gid  would 
learn  the  meaning  of  that  speech  some  day  by — 
what  was  it?  Oh,  yes — "By  the  sweat  of  his 
brow  and  the  toil  of  his  hands."  (Gid  Van  Styne 
has  such  nice  white  hands.) 

"Right,  O,"  said  Gid.  "I'll  join  the  Golf  Club 
next  week."  But  that  didn't  seem  to  please 
Spriggs  any  better,  and  he  acted  most  ungentle- 
manly,  telling  Gid  to  say  it  like  he  meant  it,  any- 
way, not  as  though  he  was  asking  the  price  of  a 
monocle. 

But  when  it  got  to  George  and  Dolly's  scene 
it  was  a  picture  to  see  Spriggs  watch  her.  He 
just  forgot  to  follow  them  by  reading  from  the 
play  and  moved  his  lips  silently,  mocking  every 
word  they  said  and  making  such  queer  faces. 
When  George  kissed  her  at  the  end,  that  seemed 
[127] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

to  disturb  him  some.  He  said  it  wasn't  really 
necessary  to  do  it  before  the  last  performance. 

Well,  that  seemed  to  please — who?  Dolly? 
No.  Abigail  Havens,  you  know,  from  Pittsfield. 
She's  a  stiff  little  thing.  Puritan  blood,  and  all 
that.  She  had  threatened  all  along  to  quit  if 
Billy  Fillston  really  did,  you  know.  So  she  was 
glad  she  didn't  have  to.  But  Dolly  got  dread- 
fully serious  and  said  he  certainly  was  right,  but 
this  was  the  best  part  of  his  play  and  she  didn't 
want  to  spoil  it,  so  she  thought  George  might  kiss 
her  if  it  helped.  And  that  satisfied  Spriggs. 

It  was  plain  to  see  that  he  had  not  seen  her  and 
George  when  they  were  not  acting  and  in  the 
library — but  that  was  none  of  my  business. 

I  was  all  the  time  trying  to  remember  my  part. 
It  was  the  funniest  thing :  before  I  got  up  I  knew 
every  word,  but  just  the  minute  I  opened  my 
mouth  everything  seemed  to  leave  me.  And 
when  Billy  Fillston  commenced  looking  into  the 
piano  and  everywhere  for  my  brains  that  didn't 
help  any.  But  Spriggs  was  just  as  nice  as  he 
could  be.  He  said  at  the  crucial  moment  I  would 
remember — and  strangely  enough,  I  did.  But 
that  is  getting  ahead,  isn't  it? 

It  was  just  one  week  before  New  Year's — the 
day  after  Christmas.  That's  so — only  five  days. 
Well,  we  had  gotten  everything  up  fine.  None  of 
us  knew  our  parts,  but  the  dressmakers  had 
turned  out  perfect  dreams,  and  the  scene-man 
[128] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

and  the  carpenters  had  built  the  nicest  little  stage 
in  the  drawing-room.  It  was  simply  dear,  and 
Dolly  had  artificial  flowers  put  all  over  the  front 
to  make  it  harmonize,  she  said.  They  cost  an 
awful  lot,  and  so  did  the  furniture.  Spriggs 
wanted  us  to  use  just  plain  boards  in  that  sec- 
ond act,  but  Dolly  simply  gave  him  one  look, 
and  he  thought  that,  after  all,  we  could  use  Mis- 
sion furniture.  Because  a  poor  workman  might 
have  some,  you  know. 

By  this  time  I  began  to  wonder  whether  it  was 
the  play  or  the  coming  to  rehearsals  Spriggs 
cared  most  for.  Come  to  think  of  it,  that  play 
was  the  same  idea,  rather — a  poor  inventor  falling 
in  love  with  Tubble's — I  mean  the  plutocrat's 
daughter.  (Though,  of  course,  Dolly's  father, 
with  his  few  millions,  couldn't  be  called  that.) 

Well,  the  time  drifted  along,  and  at  the  re- 
hearsal that  occurred  the  night  before  the  per- 
formance, George  hurried  away  early.  I  didn't 
know  why  then,  but  it  turned  out  it  was  a  bach- 
elor dinner  that  he  gave  that  night  because  his 
engagement  to  Dolly  was  going  to  be  announced 
at  the  supper  the  following  night. 

Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  about  that.  Dolly 
thought  it  would  be  unique.  Yes,  he  left  and  we 
all  stayed  until  nearly  one  o'clock  working. 
Harry  and  I  didn't  hurry,  and  I  do  believe  Dolly 
thought  we  had  gone,  because  I  heard  her  saying 
[129] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

good-night  to  Mr.  Spriggs.  He  was  holding  her 
hand. 

You  don't  know  how  I  thank  you,"  he  said, 
"for  promising  to  have  that  manager  come,  and 
for — for  being  so  good  to  me,"  and  he  looked 
tremendously  hard  at  her. 

"Oh,  nonsense,  you  have  been  good  to  me,  and 
I  appreciate  your  letting  us  have  the  play." 

"Do  you  ?  "  he  said.  But  we  came  around  the 
corner  just  then  and  he  went  out. 

"Dolly !  "  said  I,  shaking  my  finger. 

She  put  up  her  nose  defiantly. 

"Well,  he  has  done  lots,"  she  said.  "Think  of 
what  a  triumph — if  it  all  goes  well.  Patricia 
Boardman's  charades  will  look  like  one  of  her 
last  year's  frocks." 

Wasn't  that  Dolly,  thinking  about  outdoing 
somebody  else! 

Well,  the  next  night  the  drawing-room  was 
jammed.  Most  of  those  who  had  bought  tickets 
came.  Of  course  not  all  The  ones.  There  are 
a  lot  who  always  rush  to  pay  to  see  the  inside 
of  the  Appletons'  house.  You  see,  afterward 
they  can  commence  a  conversation  with  their 
friends  this  way:  "When  I  dropped  in  on  dear 
Mrs.  Appleton,  the  other  day  .  .  ."  And  if 
that  doesn't  impress  them  they  add,  "Mrs.  Oliver 
Appleton,  you  know. 

They  were  all  there.  But  Dolly  said  she  didn't 
have  to  ask  them  to  supper  or  recognize  them 
[130] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

afterward  or  call  on  them ;  and  she  could  always 
be  out.  Besides,  they  were  handy  to  sell  things 
to,  and  you  couldn't  possibly  offend  them — they 
were  always  ready  to  pay  next  time. 

Yes,  the  drawing-room  was  full,  and  then  the 
funniest  thing  happened. 

George  didn't  come ! 

"Where  is  he?"  we  all  asked.  And  Spriggs 
went  running  around  with  his  face  as  white  as 
my  feather  boa. 

Billy  Fillston  said  that  the  last  he  had  seen  of 
him,  George  was  trying  to  make  a  cabman  drive 
his  horse  up  the  side  of  the  Flat  Iron  Building. 
George  insisted  that  the  horse  was  "The  Human 
Fly."  Though  a  horse  isn't  human,  is  he. 

"That  bachelor  dinner !  "  said  Dolly.  "I  knew 
it !  Of  all  nights,  to  choose  the  one  before  the 
play!" 

"But  I,"  said  Billy,  "did  I  lose  my  chance  to 
imprint  upon  the  chaste  lips  of  Miss  Abigail,  the 
Puritan,  one  rapturous  kiss  ?  Nay,  nay,  far  be  it 
from  me,  Pauline !  " 

Of  course,  he  was  only  joking,  because  Billy 
could  drink  a  cellar  dry  and  then  walk  a  tele- 
graph wire.  They  call  him  "The  Bonded  Ware- 
house," whatever  that  means.  It  was  only  that 
he  had  gotten  over  it,  but  George — well,  he 
simply  didn't  come,  that's  all,  and  there  we  were, 
and  the  orchestra  playing! 

Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Dolly  got  the 
[131] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

orchestra.  It  cost,  but  Dolly  was  going  to  have 
the  best.  It  was  the  best,  and  playing  its  best, 
and  the  little  professional  man  we  got  from  the 
Comedy  Theatre  was  swearing  dreadfully,  and 
what  do  you  think! 

Spriggs  stepped  up.     "I'll  play  it,"  he  said. 

"You  know  it?  "  asked  Dolly,  anxiously. 

Spriggs  answered  in  the  strangest  way :  "Too 
well ! " 

Now  what  do  you  suppose  he  meant?  "Too 
well ! "  And  the  queerest  look  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"Just  the  thing,"  said  Dolly. 

You  see,  she  was  remembering  Patricia  Board- 
man's  charades. 

And  then  she  stopped  and  looked  at  Spriggs, 
and  I  suppose  it  must  have  crossed  her  mind  how 
badly  he  would  appear  as  the  handsome  young 
hero.  But  her  face  lighted  up  again. 

"You  could  wear  George's  costumes,"  she  said. 
"They  are  all  here." 

Spriggs  looked  down  over  his  own  clothes,  and 
his  face  got  very  red.  But  before  they  could  say 
another  word  Dolly  hurried  him  up  to  the  room 
where  the  men  were  to  dress  and  pushed  him 
inside. 

Then  there  was  a  tremendous  bustling. 

Abigail  just  wouldn't  have  paint  on  her  cheeks, 
and  the  Comedy  Theatre  man  said  it  was  neces- 
sary. Then,  when  they  were  arguing  about  it, 
[132] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

he  called  her  "My  dear,"  which  made  her  de- 
clare she  wasn't  going  to  play  at  all.  It  took 
about  ten  minutes  to  straighten  that  out.  The 
theatre  man  called  in  Billy  Fillston  to  prove  that 
"My  dear"  was  a  regular  professional  term, 
meaning  "Young  lady."  But  Abigail  wouldn't 
take  his  word  for  it,  because  Billy  only  knew 
show-girls,  and,  of  course,  they  .  .  .  ! 

But  the  audience  was  applauding  and  applaud- 
ing, and  it  was  dreadful,  and  the  Comedy  Theatre 
man  was  frantic,  but  Dolly  settled  it  by  putting 
on  the  demurest  expression  and  telling  Abigail 
she  quite  agreed  with  her.  And,  when  she  had 
finished  with  the  theatre  man,  he  was  calling  her 
"My  dear,"  and  had  agreed  to  apologize  to  Abi- 
gail and  let  her  not  wear  paint  if  she  didn't 
want  to. 

Then  Harry  Worthing  had  a  fit  because  he 
thought  he  was  poisoned  or  burnt  or  something. 
It  was  the  stuff  they  used  to  stick  his  whiskers  on 
with,  and  it  smelled  terribly.  How  did  I  know? 
I  think  you're  real  mean. 

Well,  at  last  we  were  ready,  all  except  Spriggs, 
and  then  he  came  out.  Really,  you  wouldn't 
have  known  the  man !  He  had  his  hair  cut,  any- 
way that  day,  and  with  all  of  George's  things  on, 
and  without  his  spectacles,  I  had  to  be  told  who 
he  was. 

And  Dolly— Dolly  simply  clasped  her  hands 
and  said,  "Oh,  Mr.  Spriggs,  how  nice  you  look !  " 
[133] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

Do  you  know,  really,  if  his  face  had  shown  the 
effects  of  breeding,  he  would  have  been  hand- 
somer than  George.  Effects  of  breeding  ?  Why, 
you  know — round,  full  and  flushed  face,  and  an 
air  as  though  one  doesn't  care  a  pin  what  any- 
body thinks  about  anything. 

No,  Spriggs  was  too  much  eyes,  his  face  was 
too  thin,  and  his  chin  was  too  square  and 
prominent. 

And  what  do  you  suppose  he  answered  Dolly? 
He  said:  "I  am  glad  you  like  the  clothes." 

There  was  some  hidden  meanfng  in  that,  I'm 
sure,  but  I  didn't  stop  to  think  it  out,  because 
just  then  the  orchestra  started  again,  and  the 
theatre  man  ordered  us  off  the  stage  and  the  cur- 
tain went  up. 

Well,  that  first  act  went  splendidly.  Every- 
body knew  their  parts,  said  them  just  right,  and 
there  was  only  one  little  wait  of  about  five  min- 
utes while  we  found  Gid  Van  Styne  in  the  bil- 
liard-room and  told  him  it  was  time  for  him  to 
go  on.  But  the  audience  didn't  seem  to  mind  a 
bit,  because  they  had  a  lot  of  fun  laughing  at 
Abigail,  who  had  reached  the  end  of  what  she 
had  to  say  and  couldn't  make  up  anything  more. 
And,  oh,  yes,  I  forgot  Ezra  Tubble  dropped  his 
wig  on  the  floor  when  he  tipped  his  head.  But 
that  didn't  matter,  because  they  all  knew  that  it 
was  not  his  own  hair,  anyway.  And  when  the 
climax  came,  and  Spriggs  said  his  words  about 
[134] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

"This  night  the  men  will  strike,  and  we  will  fight 
you  to  the  last  ditch,"  they  applauded  more  than 
ever. 

And  between  acts  Mr.  Bridger,  "Amalgamated 
Bridger"  they  call  him  (he  is  Gladys'  uncle),  said 
that  it  was  so  realistic  that  he  had  to  go  out  in 
the  hall  to  wait  for  the  walking-delegate  to  come 
for  his  check. 

Anyway,  things  were  going  splendidly,  and 
that  Spriggs  person's  face  was  the  funniest  study. 
He  looked  as  though  he  wanted  to  laugh  or  cry 
and  didn't  know  which,  and  when  Dolly  told  him 
that  she  saw  Manager  Constein  applauding,  too, 
he  almost  fainted. 

They  had  stepped  just  a  minute  into  the  hall. 
And  I  heard  him  say  something  about  never  for- 
getting this  she  had  done  for  him.  She  said  that 
was  all  right.  Oh,  Dolly  is  generous.  She  shook 
his  hand,  too. 

Then  the  second  act  came.  Billy  Fillston  stum- 
bled as  he  came  in  once  and  ran  his  hand  through 
the  wall  of  the  room — the  scenery  wall,  of  course. 
That  was  rather  bad,  but  it  put  them  in  a  good 
humor  just  the  same,  and  they  laughed  at  every 
little  thing  after  that. 

This  seemed  to  worry  Spriggs,  rather.  He 
clenched  his  fists  and  muttered  something  about 
they  shouldn't  have  laughed  there. 

But  I  didn't  see  why  he  should  object.  They 
were  all  having  a  lovely  time,  and,  after  all,  that 
[135] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

was  what  they  paid  for.  But  Spriggs  seemed 
mighty  serious  about  it,  and  so  savage  when  he 
told  the  rich  man  at  the  end  of  the  act  that  he 
would  take  his  daughter  away  from  him,  "by 
showing  her  the  emptiness  of  the  giddy  life  she 
was  leading,  the  uselessness,  and  by  teaching  her 
to  sympathize  with  the  poverty  of  those  who  had 
not  been  born  so  fortunately." 

He  said  that  so  earnestly  that  they  didn't  laugh, 
and  that  seemed  to  please  him;  but  they  didn't 
applaud,  and  that  didn't  please  him  much,  either. 

And  then  came  the  third  act — the  last.  I'll 
never  forget  it. 

It  was  Billy  Fillston  who  made  it  such  a  suc- 
cess. You  see,  he  had  decided  long  before  that 
the  play  was  too  slow  in  this  act,  and  so  he  fixed 
it  up  with  Gid  to  liven  things  up.  So  when  it 
came  time  for  Gid's  speech  about  "bread  for  my 
children's  mouths,"  he  said  "afternoon  tea-bis- 
cuits," and  the  audience  laughed  themselves  sick. 

Then  he  filled  in  a  lot  about  having  no  cham- 
pagne, and  not  even  an  automobile,  and  then, 
when  all  of  us  were  on  the  stage,  and  Spriggs 
was  talking  something  about  what  "his  fellow- 
workers  deserved"  and  Tubble  answered  him  by 
asking  him  "What  do  you  want?  "  Billy  Fillston, 
instead  of  saying  his  speech,  which  was:  "We 
want  justice  for  ourselves  and  our  little  ones" — 
instead  of  that,  Billy  turned  to  the  orchestra 
leader  and  said,  "I  want  the  key  of  G,"  and — do 
[136] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

you  know  ? — the  orchestra  started  right  up  (  Billy 
had  given  the  leader  an  extra  twenty  before- 
hand), and  he  sang  three  verses  and  seven  en- 
cores of  Give  My  Regards  to  the  Great  White 
Way. 

Well,  that  was  the  hit. 

In  the  middle  of  it  stood  Spriggs,  slowly  but- 
toning and  unbuttoning  his  coat.  I  do  believe  he 
had  tears  in  his  eyes,  but  maybe  it  was  the  paint. 
I  suppose  that  was  it,  because,  when  we  left  him 
and  Dolly  on  the  stage  together,  all  alone,  he 
seemed  to  forget  everything  but  the  piece  he  had 
to  say. 

Let  me  see  if  I  can  remember  it.  It  was  some- 
thing about  "I  come  here  to  tell  you  of  another 
world.  Not  this  one  of  luxury,  folly  and  untruth, 
fashion,  foibles  and  sin.  I  want  to  tell  you  not  of 
need,  of  misery,  but  of  people  who  pay  you  back 
with  truth,  gratitude  and  sincerity  if  you  go  to 
them  in  the  right  spirit." 

"Why  do  you  say  this  to  me?"  said  Dolly. 
(That  was  her  part.) 

"Because  you  are  sincere  of  heart,"  he  said;  "I 
know  you  are.  Though  your  father  is  rich  and 
you  belong  to  another  world,  I  dare  say  this  to 
you  because  I  love  you.  You  understand?  I 
love  you!" 

And  Dolly  turned,  just  as  she  ought  to — "You 
love  me?" 

He  came  closer  to  her,  as  George  had  always 
[137] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

rehearsed  it.  "Yes,  I  love  you,"  he  said.  "Come 
with  me.  Leave  this  fetid  atmosphere  and  come 
with  me  into  the  clear  sunlight  of  tomorrow. 
Will  you?  Will  your 

And  Dolly  turned  to  him  and  said:  "Yest  I 
hate  it  all,  I  hate  them  all,  and  I'll  go  wtih  you — 
because — because  I  love  you,  too."  And  she 
reached  out  her  arms  to  him. 

Well,  you  should  have  seen  the  expression  that 
came  over  that  man's  face !  He  actually  seemed 
to  forget  it  was  only  all  in  the  play,  or,  at  least, 
he  was  acting  very  well. 

Then  he  seemed  to  get  rather  dazed,  and  when 
she  kissed  him,  that  simply  seemed  to  overcome 
him.  He  stood  looking  and  looking  after  her 
and  forgot  every  word  he  ought  to  say ! 

The  prompter  was  calling  to  him  out  of  the 
side-place,  but  all  he  said  was,  "I  can't  go  on. 

I  can't "  and  stammered  so  that  we  had  to 

pull  down  the  curtain  on  a  cake-walk  gotten  up 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment  by  Billy  and  Gid  and 
the  rest.  But  it  ended  everything  splendidly. 

Then  the  people  came  up  and  congratulated  us, 
and  Spriggs,  too.  One  of  the  last  was  the  opera- 
house  manager.  Dolly  brought  him  up  to 
Spriggs  herself. 

"How  did  you  like  it  ?  "  she  asked,  smiling  at 
him. 

The  manager  gave  one  look  at  Spriggs,  then 
he  said:  "Very  good,  very  good.  But,  Mr. 
[138] 


ALL  IN  THE  PLAY 

Spriggs,  you  will  have  to  play  it  for  a  comedy." 
And  then  he  went  out  with  the  others. 

Dolly  stood  looking  at  Spriggs,  and  what  do 
you  suppose?  Just  then  in  came  George.  Of 
course,  he  ran  up  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"Well,  Dolls,  old  girl,"  he  said,  "how  did  it 
go  ?  Have  you  announced  it  yet  ?  " 

"Went  fine,"  answered  Dolly,  "thanks  to  Mr. 
Spriggs.  We  owe  him  a  great  deal,  George." 

But  Spriggs  didn't  say  anything  except,  "An- 
nounce? Announce  what?"  And  he  seemed 
absolutely  stupefied. 

"Why,  our  engagement,"  said  George. 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  Dolly  why  he  had 
missed  the  performance.  It  seems  that  his  doctor 
advised  Turkish  baths  after  his  bachelor  dinner, 
and  he  had  just  got  out. 

Then  the  Comedy  Theatre  man  stepped  up  and 
handed  Spriggs  back  his  torn  and  battered  play. 

"There  you  are,  Spriggsey,  old  chap,"  he  said. 
"Constein  says  it  is  great.  But  play  it  as  a  com- 
edy, old  chap,  play  it  as  a  comedy." 

Spriggs  walked  rather  unsteadily  to  the  door, 
I  thought,  and  opened  it.  It  was  snowing,  and 
he  stood  there  with  it  floating  around  that  green 
cutaway.  He  didn't  have  any  overcoat.  I  guess 
he  forgot  it  or  something.  Just  then  Dolly  missed 
him  and  turned. 

"Why,"  she  called,  dimpling,  "aren't  you  com- 
ing in  to  supper  ?" 

[139] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

He  looked  back  at  her.  "No,"  he  answered, 
"I  am  going  to  play  it  for  a  comedy."  And  he 
went  out. 

Yes,  that  was  all. 

Mrs.  Maguire? 

Do  you  know,  Dolly  had  been  so  busy  with 
the  play  that  she  hadn't  called  around  for  two  or 
three  weeks!  During  that  time  Mrs.  Maguire 
had  died — a  cold  or  something;  I  forget  now. 
And,  after  all,  there  weren't  any  profits  for  her, 
because  everything  had  cost  so  much  that  we'd 
gone  behind,  and  Dolly's  father  had  to  give  a 
check  to  pay  some  of  the  debts.  But  Dolly  is 
going  to  get  up  some  gymkhana  races  this  spring 
to  help  out  her  children. 


140] 


Steve 

'TWEVE,    I've    bwoke    my    fwishin' 
wod ;   wun't  chou  pwease  f wix  it  ?  " 
A  small,  tearful  figure,  in  faded 

overalls  and  bare  feet,  held  up  the 

two  broken  pieces  of  a  short  cane  pole.    The  little 
mouth  was  still  quivering,  but  the  brown  eyes 
looked  trustingly  up  at  Steve.     The  bigger  of 
the  two  net-menders  laid  his  wooden  needle,  with 
its  hump  of  soft  cotton  twine,  upon  the  rack  of 
stretched  nets. 
"Yes,  I  reckon  I  kin  fix  it." 
The  voice  was  strangely  soft  and  low  for  the 
rough  bigness  of  the  man. 

Steve  put  out  a  tanned  water-washed  hand, 
and  took  the  broken  pole,  while  the  youngster 
hopped  joyously  up  and  down  upon  the  net  raft. 
"I'm  thwo  gwad  it's  goin'  tuh  get  fwixed,"  he 
said,  as  Steve  seated  himself  on  the  prow  of  the 
flat-bottomed  boat  and  drew  out  a  big  pocket- 
knife. 

[141] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

Three  splints,  a  little  twine,  and  the  rod  came 
from  under  his  deft  fingers  whole  once  more. 

"How'd  yuh  break  it,  Bob?"  he  asked,  as  he 
turned  back  to  his  mending. 

"I  didn't  bwake  it,"  the  child  answered.  "Th' 
fwish  bwoke  it,  an'  O  Stweve!  it  was  a  gweat 
bwig,  bwig  fwish." 

Bubbling  over  with  glee  at  his  newly  restored 
pole,  Little  Overalls  scrambled  off  the  net-raft 
and  disappeared  up  the  deep-cut  path  through 
the  alders. 

"Bob  Gillam's  gettin'  to  be  a  right  nice  little 
kid,  Hugh,"  the  big  fisherman  remarked,  as  the 
fingers  of  his  brown  hands  drove  the  needle 
swiftly  in  and  out  through  the  stiffened  meshes 
of  the  net. 

"Yes,  tolerble  nice,"  his  brother  replied,  ab- 
sently ;  "not  much  like  th'  old  man,  though.  Say, 
Steve,  if  Gillam  should  win  that  lawsuit,  what 
'ud  we  do  then  ?  "  At  the  mention  of  Gillam's 
name  Steve's  face  hardened  and  the  mild  brown 
eyes  glinted  steelily  for  a  moment,  while  his  jaw 
set  in  grim,  cold  lines.  Then  the  kindness  came 
back  into  his  eyes,  and  he  answered. 

"No,  Hugh,  th'  court  kaint  decide  that-a-way ; 
not  when  they've  got  our  deed  tuh  th'  fishin' 
grounds." 

Neither  spoke  for  several  minutes,  and  in  the 
silence,  above  the  sish,  sish  of  the  flying  needles, 
the  voice  of  the  river  rose  up.  At  first  there  was 
[142] 


STEVE 

but  the  sibilant  gurgle,  and  liquid  mouthings  of 
the  current  on  the  riffles,  then,  with  a  shift  of 
the  breeze,  there  drifted  up  from  the  dusky  purple 
gorge  down  stream,  the  throaty  roar  of  the 
rapids,  low-keyed  and  hoarse.  It  was  as  if  in 
the  fading  light  some  giant  muttered  to  himself 
and  at  each  surly  growl  of  the  monster  the  little 
foam-tipped  wavelets  on  the  riffles  by  the  raft 
seemed  to  stop,  to  shiver,  and  then  to  fall  whitely 
back  upon  their  fellows.  The  sharp  clatter  of 
sliding  stones  on  the  bank  broke  the  stillness. 

"Yer  name  Pearson  ? "  The  voice  was  sharp 
with  command. 

"Yes,  my  name's  Pearson,"  Steve  answered 
slowly. 

"I'm  th'  deputy  sheriff,  'n'  I  come  tuh  say  thet 
th'  court's  got  out  'n  injunction  agin  you  tuh 
keep  off'n  Gillam's  fishin'  grounds." 

"But  it's  ourn.  We  have  th'  deed  to  it,  an'— 
an'  we've  sent  it  up  tuh  th'  court." 

"Dunno  'bout  thet;  but  it's  Gillam's  now. 
Guess  maybe  th'  deed  got  lost — if  yuh  ever  had 
one.  You'll  have  tuh  keep  off'n  his  jetties  now, 
anyway."  And  the  sheriff  turned  sharply,  and 
climbed  back  up  the  worn  path  through  the 
alders.  Behind  him  on  the  raft  Steve  looked 
dumbly  down  at  his  nets,  while  his  sinewy  fingers 
tightened  until  the  wooden  needle  snapped  and 
crumpled  in  his  hand. 

[143] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

The  big  form  swayed  unsteadily  a  moment,  and 
his  voice  caught  as  he  spoke : 

"It's  all— we've  got— Hugh— an'  th'  mother's 
too  old  tuh  take  keer  of  herself  now." 

Silently  the  two  left  the  raft,  and  swung 
slowly  up  the  path  to  the  little  old  white  house, 
set  far  back  in  the  apple  orchard.  As  he  passed, 
the  alder  branches  whipped  him  sharply  across 
the  face,  leaving  little  trickles  of  blood  behind 
them ;  but  Steve  went  on  unheeding,  past  the  row 
of  trimly,  white-washed  bee-hives,  and  in  through 
the  wire-latched  gate. 

At  the  door  a  white-haired  woman  met  them, 
her  face  shining  with  the  sweetness  of  a  great 
love.  As  the  two  entered  the  firelight  the  mother 
put  both  her  hands  on  her  son's  shoulders. 

"What  is  it,  Steve?  "  she  said.  The  big  fellow 
looked  away  for  a  moment,  his  soft  eyes  drawn 
with  pain,  then  turning  back  he  answered : 

"They've  taken  away  our  jetties;  we  can't 
fish  now." 

For  a  minute  there  was  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  crackle  of  the  fir-logs,  and  the  steady  tick 
of  the  clock.  Then  Steve  freed  himself  and 
stepped  quickly  to  the  corner.  Very  gently  he 
picked  up  the  oily  Winchester.  Very  gently  he 
slid  down  the  shiny  lever  and  watched  the  big 
bottle-necked  brass  shell  glide  smoothly  into  the 
chamber,  but  in  the  face  above  the  gliding  shell 
there  was  now  no  gentleness. 
[144] 


STEVE 

In  the  strained  quiet,  the  mother  spoke  sharply : 

"No,  Steve !     No !     It  can't  be  that." 

Steve  went  on  unheeding. 

"Tonight  we'll  drift  th'  nets  below  th'  dam,  and 
down  through  Gillams's  jetties,  and  if  he  conies" 
— the  voice  was  low  and  strangely  sweet,  but 
glinting  through  the  sweetness,  was  the  gleam 
of  steel — and  still  in  the  firelight  shimmered  the 
gliding  shell. 


In  the  unreal  whiteness  of  the  moonlight,  the 
big  river  slipped  smoothly  away  from  the  dam 
and  glided  down  through  the  fishing  jetties,  with 
only  the  crooning  swish,  swish  of  the  foam- 
capped  wavelets,  and  now  and  then  the  cavernous 
liquid  gurgle  of  the  current,  to  hint  of  the  great 
lithe  power  of  it. 

Close  up  to  where  the  white  water  boomed 
over  the  dam  hung  a  flat-bottomed  boat.  Steve 
at  the  oars  held  her  alertly,  right  across  the  froth 
of  the  up-swirl  from  the  dam.  Gently  he  dipped 
his  blades,  and  with  the  skill  of  the  master,  kept 
her  always  just  where  the  in-suction  balanced  the 
down-stream  tug  of  the  river.  As  he  rowed  he 
could  see  the  ghostly  black  timbers  through  the 
smooth  lip  of  the  dam,  and  every  now  and  then 
the  spray  swept  over  him. 

"All  right,  Steve,  let  'er  go !  "  At  the  low  com- 
mand Steve  whirled  his  boat  broadside,  and  shot 
[145] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

her  swiftly  out  across  the  face  of  the  dam,  while 
Hugh  in  the  stern  payed  out  the  net. 

It  was  done  in  a  second,  and  then  as  they 
drifted  swiftly  down  upon  the  fishing  piers,  Steve 
hung  motionless  on  his  oars,  his  eyes  roaming 
watchfully  over  the  surface  of  the  river,  and  his 
right  hand  fingering  the  cold  barrel  of  the  Win- 
chester at  his  knee,  while  all  about,  only  the  voice 
of  the  river  swelled  up  into  the  night. 

They  had  scarcely  reached  the  first  pier  when 
a  red  flash  leaped  out  from  one  of  the  black 
bulks  down-stream,  and  a  rifle-crack  cut  the 
stillness. 

Swiftly  Steve  threw  a  return  shot  toward 
where  the  rifle-flash  had  been,  and  they  could 
hear  the  "putt"  of  the  bullet,  as  it  thudded  into 
the  oaken  pier. 

"Cut  the  net  loose,  Hugh ;  he's  behind  the  long 
jetty."  The  slow,  almost  drawling  tone,  con- 
trasted weirdly  with  the  whip-lash  swiftness  of 
the  man. 

A  second  shot  rang  out  down  stream,  and 
this  time  Steve's  answer  came  so  that  the  two 
reports  slurred  into  one. 

A  spasmodic  jump  of  the  dim  figure  by  the 
pier  told  Steve  that  the  shot  had  landed. 

"Got  'im,  Hugh,"  he  said  softly,  his  eyes  on  the 
black  outline  of  the  long  jetty.  There  was  no 
answer. 

"Hugh,  I  hit  'im."  Still  no  answer.  Sur- 
[146] 


STEVE 

prised,  Steve  glanced  down  quickly,  then  at  sight 
of  his  brother  crumpled  down  on  the  stern  seat, 
he  caught  his  breath  sharply,  his  face  suddenly 
twisted  with  deep  lines  of  pain. 

As  he  started  forward  Hugh  moved  and  spoke : 

"It's  only — the  shoulder.  Take  me  ashore." 
Steve  straightened,  his  big  form  quivering.  A 
half-dozen  powerful  strokes  sent  the  boat's  nose 
out  upon  the  net-raft.  Tenderly  Steve  lifted  his 
brother  to  the  planks,  then  with  a  jerk  stood  up- 
right, a  question  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  I'm  all  right  now,"  Hugh  answered. 
Without  a  word,  Steve  sprang  back  to  his  oars. 
The  boat  leaped  out  over  the  water,  the  heavy 
blades  bending  at  each  heave  of  the  great,  tense 
body,  and  as  he  rowed  his  mouth  straightened  to 
a  tense  line.  At  the  jetties,  as  he  swung  the  bow 
up-stream,  his  eyes  lighted  upon  the  outline  of  a 
drifting  boat,  and  in  the  boat,  the  figure  of  a 
man.  The  rifle  jumped  to  his  shoulder,  he  drew 
the  sights  down  carefully  until  he  knew  the  man 
was  his,  he  picked  the  spot,  he  could  even  fancy 
the  bullet  ripping  through  the  left-hand  pocket 
of  the  greasy  jumper  that  he  knew  Gillam  always 
wore.  The  man  moved,  and  then  Steve  saw  that 
his  right  arm  hung  helpless  at  his  side.  Slowly 
the  gun  dropped  and  the  big  fisherman  sat 
motionless. 

"I  kaint  shoot  e'en  a  dog  that-a-way,"  he  mut- 
tered. And  again  in  the  stillness,  while  the  boats 
[147] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

drifted,  the  voice  of  the  river  rose  into  the  night. 
Then,  as  they  rounded  the  b'end,  the  hoarse  roar 
of  the  rapids  swelled  up  and  drowned  all  other 
sounds. 

Steve  shifted  uneasily. 

"Th'  river'll  get  'im  anyway.  But — but  it  ain't 
th'  same  that-a-way."  His  glance  rested  for  a 
moment  on  the  boat  ahead,  and,  sticking  over 
the  stern,  he  noticed  little  Bob  Gillam's  mended 
fishing  pole. 

"Pore  little  kid,"  he  muttered. 

Back  to  him  came  the  words  of  old  man  Davis : 
"They  ain't  but  one  man  kin  run  thet  gorge,  V 
thet  man's  Steve  Pearson."  He  hesitated. 

"  'N'  Gillam,  he  kaint  even  swim — an'  at 
night ! "  As  he  looked  again,  the  drifting  boat 
was  just  tipping  over  the  first  riffle,  and  Bob's 
pole,  tilting  up  into  the  air,  seemed  to  beckon 
to  him. 

With  a  snap  the  big  form  straightened.  In  a 
moment  the  boat  had  turned.  Down  stream  it 
raced.  In  the  little  stillwater  at  the  mouth  of 
the  gorge,  Steve  caught  the  drifting  boat. 

"Get  in,"  he  commanded.  For  a  moment  Gil- 
lam  stared  blankly  back  at  him,  then  silently 
obeyed.  Steve  swung  the  bow  up-stream  and 
braced  himself  for  the  shock,  his  hands  tighten- 
ing vice-like,  upon  the  oars.  There  was  a  sick- 
ening downward  rush.  The  big  stationary  waves 
rolled  up  beside  him,  level  with  his  eyes,  and  as 
[148] 


STEVE 

he  watched,  he  wondered  that  they  looked  so 
soft,  and  the  foam  was  like  lace  along  their 
crests.  But  their  surging  strength,  as  they 
wrenched  on  the  oars,  was  the  hard,  cruel  power 
of  demons,  and  their  hiss  and  slither  were  the 
voice  of  fiends.  The  spray  swept  over  him  in 
dripping  sheets,  and  once  a  big  comber  crashed 
into  the  boat.  Then  suddenly  the  clamor  ceased 
— and  they  were  through. 

Steve  looked  down  at  the  huddled  form  before 
him.  As  he  looked  the  man  sat  up : 

"God,  'n'  'twere  me  thet  stole  yur  deed  tuh  th' 
jetties ! " 


[149] 


Buck  du  Spain 

XWAS  only  eight,  that  first  summer 
father   let   the    hauling   to    the    Du 
Spains,  but  I  remember  very  well  the 
dusty  day  they  drove  around  the  turn 
into  sight,  and  covered  the  big  flat  between  the 
men's  cabins  and  the  barns  with  their  long  bark 
wagons,  and  half-a-hundred  horses. 

Buck  Du  Spain  didn't  come  with  the  rest  of 
the  outfit,  but  rode  in,  on  his  little  black  horse, 
in  the  yellow  evening.  He  was  very  beautiful, 
I  thought,  when  he  dropped  off  his  horse  and 
came  over  to  speak  to  Father, — tall,  and  lazily 
slow,  with  a  full  throat,  and  a  pleasant  drawling 
voice,  and  —  delight  of  my  childish  heart  —  a 
straight  nose.  He  put  me  up  on  his  horse  when 
he  led  him  round  to  the  stable,  and  then  told  me 
to  see  how  fast  I  could  run  home. 

They  —  the  Du  Spains  —  took  the  big  white 
house,  just  across  the  road  from  ours,  that  had 
been  empty  for  so  long.    Buck  couldn't  have  been 
[150] 


BUCK  DU  SPAIN 

more  than  eighteen,  for  he  wasn't  driving  him- 
self, but  just  helped  his  father  manage  the  big 
outfit,  and  took  a  team  out  for  a  day  or  so,  if 
a  driver  were  laid  off.  He  and  my  gay  young 
uncle  grew  fast  friends,  and  I,  lonely  for  play- 
mates, tagged  them  mercilessly.  But,  when  I 
had  stayed  at  his  mother's  for  supper,  he  would 
perch  me  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  show  me 
pictures  from  a  book  so  big  that  it  didn't  lie  on 
the  table  but  stood  on  the  floor  beside  it,  and 
then,  when  I  grew  sleepy,  would  carry  me  across 
the  road,  home. 

At  the  end  of  the  season  they  went  away 
again,  and  I  watched  the  caravan  of  teams  pull 
out  of  sight,  with  ringing  of  leaders'  bells,  and 
the  odd  rumbling  of  unloaded  big  wagons;  and 
felt  forlorn. 

It  was  four  years  later  that  they  came  again. 
Old  Du  Spain  was  dead,  and  Buck  had  the  out- 
fit, which  was  smaller  now.  My  admiration  was 
as  keen  as  ever,  if  more  quiet.  I  was  quite  con- 
tent to  curl  up  in  the  cane  rocker  in  his  mother's 
sitting-room,  while  he,  sprawled  across  the 
lounge,  read  the  most  varied  assortment  of 
novels.  It  was  a  hot  Sunday,  and  I  very  crisp 
in  a  new  dress,  that  he  gave  me  the  fat,  brown, 
"Les  Miserables,"  thumb-marked,  and  redolent 
of  the  tobacco  of  many  bark  camps,  that  to  this 
day  jostles  the  daintier  volumes  on  my  shelves. 

The  rains  came  early  that  year.  So  they 
[151] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

shedded  the  bark  that  was  left  in  the  woods,  and 
took  the  horses  forty  miles  to  pasture.  I  remem- 
ber the  long  string  going  down  the  hill,  one  tied 
to  the  other's  tail.  The  teamsters  left,  but  Buck 
and  his  mother  decided  to  stay, — they  might  as 
well  wait  for  next  season  there  as  anywhere, 
they  said.  So  we  settled  down  for  the  winter, 
which  was  only  quieter  than  the  summer. 

When  it  was  clear, — and  it  seemed  not  to  be 
clear  much — I  sat  on  the  high  porch,  and  watched 
my  uncle  and  Buck  break  the  two  new  colts,  wild 
from  the  range.  For  rainy  days  I  had  two  play- 
ing-places  ;  the  long,  low  room  over  the  kitchen, 
sacred  to  trunks,  old  magazines,  and  my  dolls; 
and,  better  far,  the  store,  where  my  uncle  kept 
the  high,  round  stove  roaring.  He  and  Buck  sat 
beside  it,  making  for  the  six-horse  lashes  the 
poppers  I  could  never  "pop" ;  and  braiding  elabo- 
rate covers  for  whip-stocks,  with  silver  ferrules 
slipped  on  at  intervals.  If  I  were  good,  and 
handed  him  the  shining  ferrules  in  proper  order, 
Buck  would  show  me  his  collection  of  cigarette 
cards,  or  would  play  casino  with  me.  "You're 
a  nicer  partner  than  Toney,  Kitten,"  he  laughed, 
one  day,  when  he'd  taken  cards  and  spades,  big 
and  little  casino  and  all  the  aces. 

"Who  is  Toney  ?  "  I  promptly  asked. 

"Oh,  a  man  at  the  Forks,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  play  with  him,  Buck,  you 
know  he's  crooked,"  put  in  my  uncle. 
[152] 


BUCK  DU  SPAIN 

"For  money,  of  course,"  said  Buck,  dealing  out 
the  cards  with  that  careless  ease  that  was  my 
envy  and  despair.  "Are  you  going  to  win  this 
game,  young  lady?  " 

Near  the  end  of  winter  there  came  a  sunny 
Sunday,  and  with  it  the  circuit  preacher.  So 
we  all  drove  over  to  the  schoolhouse,  where  the 
blacking  fairly  bubbled  on  the  hot  stove,  and 
smelled  most  awfully.  First  there  were  hymns, 
which  I  liked,  and,  too,  liked  hearing  Buck's 
clear  tenor  above  the  rest.  Then  came  the  ser- 
mon. Now  our  minister  was  a  good  man,  and 
kindly,  too,  with  a  joke  every  now  and  then,  on 
week  days.  But  to  him  no  sermon  was  a  ser- 
mon which  didn't  force  his  hearers  to  reflect  upon 
their  latter  end.  I  don't  know  if  the  force  were 
stronger  that  day,  at  any  rate,  I  felt  it  more,  and 
came  out  of  church  in  a  most  exalted  state.  Not 
even  riding  home  with  Buck,  in  the  big  breaking 
cart,  behind  the  colts,  checked  the  current  of 
my  thoughts. 

Yes,  I'd  join  the  church, — for  clearly  some- 
thing must  be  done,  even  little  girls  of  twelve 
died  sometimes.  I'd  be  a  Christian.  "Pretty 
fine  colts,  don't  you  think,  Kitten?"  said  Buck, 
as  we  took  the  turn  to  the  bridge  on  one  wheel. 
I  nodded  impatiently.  Where  was  I  ?  Oh,  yes — 
yes,  I'd  be  a  Christian,  and  I'd  be  good,  I'd 
never  tell  another  story,  never  even  act  one 
(which  mother  said  was  just  as  bad),  such  as  not 
[153] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

knowing  where  that  new  cake  of  chocolate  had 
disappeared  to. 

"You'd  better  hold  onto  my  arm,  Kitten ;  we're 
coming  to  a  rough  place,  and  this  cart  hasn't  any 
back."  I  took  hold  obediently.  What  else  did 
Christians  do?  From  the  sermon  two  words 
rang  back  at  me,  "Save  souls."  I  was  a  little 
dismayed.  Whose  soul  could  I  save?  Mother's 
and  Grandmother's  were  saved  already,  of  course. 
There  were  Father  and  Uncle  Jack — but  some- 
how, it  wouldn't  be  very  easy  with  them.  But 
there  was  Buck — of  course,  Buck — I'd  save  him, 
he  wouldn't  be  so  apt  to  laugh  at  me  as  the 
others.  Then,  too,  while  he  was  good,  still  I 
felt,  vaguely,  that  he  might  stand  a  bit  of  look- 
ing after.  So  when  he  stopped  at  the  high  block 
to  let  me  out,  I  said,  "Thank  you,  Buck,  I've  had 
a  lovely  ride,"  with  a  smile  that  was  positively 
saccharine. 

The  method  of  attack  bothered  me  for  several 
days,  till  I  came  across  a  tiny  pamphlet,  left  by 
the  minister  the  last  time  he'd  taken  dinner  with 
us,  on  the  "Saving  Power  of  Song."  I  knew 
any  number  of  Gospel  hymns,  and  could  carry  a 
tune,  so  I  went  about  singing  lustily.  I'd  even 
slip  out  on  the  dark  porch  and  sing  something 
that  struck  me  as  being  especially  affecting, — like 
"Rescue  the  Perishing" — just  as  Buck  crossed  the 
road  from  the  store  to  his  late  supper.  But  one 
night  he  called,  "For  the  Lord's  sake,  shut  up, 
[154] 


BUCK  DU  SPAIN 

Kitten."  After  that  I  sang  no  more,  and  my 
missionary  zeal  diminished. 

We  ran  our  own  teams  the  next  summer,  so  in 
the  spring  they  went  away,  and  I  stood,  again, 
and  watched  them  out  of  sight,  and  felt  lonelier 
than  before. 

The  next  six  years  I  saw  Buck  perhaps  not 
six  times, — three  or  four  times  when  I'd  driven 
to  town  with  Father,  once  or  twice  more  when 
he,  riding  by,  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  came  up 
the  path,  walking  stiffly  in  his  hairy  "chaps." 
One  day,  when  Grace  and  I  had  been  discussing 
handsome  men,  and  I  had  said,  "Oh,  but  you 
should  see  Buck  Du  Spain!  He's  positively  the 
handsomest  man  I  ever  laid  eyes  on."  Father 
looked  up  over  his  paper,  and  said,  "Handsome 
is  as  handsome  do^s,"  gravely. 

It  was  in  the  summer,  three  years  ago,  and  not 
more  than  a  week  after  I  had  come  home,  that 
we  girls  went  to  the  canyon,  one  morning,  for 
ferns,  to  decorate  for  our  house  dance  that  eve- 
ning. We  came  out  with  green  armfuls.  I  had 
lingered,  for  one  more,  and  still  one  more  perfect 
five-finger,  till,  when  I  came  out  on  the  road,  the 
others  were  well  away  from  me,  half  way  up  the 
hot  hill. 

Some  men,  a-horseback,  were  coming  swiftly 

down  the  grade.     As  they  came  abreast  of  me, 

Sheriff  Murphy,  riding  in  the  lead,  swung  off  his 

hat.    The  others  I  did  not  know.    A  little  way 

[155] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

behind  them,  a  man  on  an  eager  little  buckskin 
rode  more  slowly.  I  noticed  when  he  met  the 
girls  that  he  made  as  if  to  rein  in,  but  didn't. 
But  when  he  came  to  me  he  stopped.  "Is  this 
your  name  ?  "  said  he,  holding  out  a  letter. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "who—",  but  he  only  rode  on 
more  quickly,  and  I  thought  he  laughed.  When 
we  got  home,  the  little  hamlet  was  seething  with 
the  news.  Buck  Du  Spain  had  robbed  and  killed 
Tony,  the  Italian  saloon-keeper  at  the  Forks,  and 
half  the  country  was  out  hunting  him. 

Somehow  or  other  the  day  went  in,  what  with 
draping  long  sprays  of  greens,  and  pressing  out 
crushed  ruffles,  and  shooing  the  children  away 
from  the  big  freezer,  that  stood,  burlap-swathed, 
in  the  cellar.  Then  came  dinner,  one  of  those 
excited,  half-eaten  meals.  A  little  later  Grace 
came  into  my  room,  to  hook  me  into  my  dress. 

"Whatever  is  the  matter  with  you,"  said  she; 
"you've  been  so  funny  and  still  all  day,  and  yet 
sort  of  excited  ?  Do  try  and  get  up  some  color ; 
you're  awfully  white." 

Eleven  o'clock  came,  finally,  in  the  lull  between 
two  dances.  I  waited  till  the  music  began  again ; 
then,  "Oh,  Harry ! "  I  said  to  my  partner,  "I've 
forgotten  something  I  must  do.  No,  you  can't 
help  me — ".  I  slipped  into  Mother's  room,  and 
out  the  French  window  onto  the  porch.  It  was 
dark  out  here,  and  strangely  quiet,  after  the  light 
and  noise  the  other  side  of  the  house.  I  went 
[156] 


BUCK  DU  SPAIN 

clear  to  the  end,  where  the  ground  dropped  away, 
so  the  head  of  the  man  on  horseback  was  on  a 
level  with  the  rail.  Man  and  horse  were  just  a 
dark  blurr,  for  though  the  stars  were  bright, 
there  was  no  moon.  I  remember  noticing  my 
dress  showed  dimly  white. 

"Buck,"  I  whispered. 

"Kitten,"  the  sharp  whisper  came  back,  "this 
is  good  of  you." 

"Sh-h,"  I  whispered,  and  began  to  pick  up  the 
packages  hidden  by  the  railing. 

"Here's  something  for  you-  to  eat  after  awhile, 
tie  it  on  to  the  back  of  your  saddle.  Here's 
something  to  eat  now,  can't  you  put  a  package 
in  each  pocket?"  The  man  chuckled,  "Gee! 
you've  got  a  head."  I  raised  the  last,  heaviest 
package.  "Have  you  got  the  same  revolver?  " 

"That  little  44  ?  Yes— what's  this — cartridges  ? 
Oh,  you're  a  dream !  I'm  all  right  now.  I'll  get 
out  all  right.  I'll  do  something  for  you  some 
day."  He  half-turned  his  horse,  as  if  to  start. 

"Buck,"  I  begged,  leaning  over  the  rail,  "wait 
—here—" 

"What's  this?" 

"Oh,  it's  money,  Buck.  Not  very  much,  but 
it's  mine,  and  it's  enough  to  help  you  get  away. 
Then  you'll  send  the — other — back,  won't  you, 
Buck,  and  when  you  earn  some  you  can  send  me 
back  mine."  I  was  whispering  eagerly,  out  into 
the  dark. 

[157] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

"Here,  give  it  to  me."  I  knew  he  was  laugh- 
ing. "Still  trying  to  save  my  soul,  Kitten?" 

"Oh,  how  did  you  ever  know — did  Mother — " 
Just  then  someone  came  into  the  dining-room 
with  a  lamp.  The  light  cut  full  across  from  the 
open  window  for  a  moment,  then  went  out  again. 

"Gee,  you're  a  regular  young  lady,  aren't 
you  ?  "  He  crowded  his  horse  close  to  the  house, 
and,  reaching  up,  thrust  the  purse,  heavier  than 
when  he  had  taken  it,  into  my  helpless  hands. 
"You  can  buy  pretties  with  it.  Adios,"  and  he 
rode  away  into  the  dark. 

Last  summer  I,  going  home,  was  riding 
on  the  high  front  seat  of  the  red  stage,  between 
the  driver  and  a  Wells  Fargo  inspector.  We 
had  been  driving  on  the  level  land  along  the 
coast  all  the  afternoon,  skirting  the  bases  of  the 
hills  in  long  curves.  The  dark  and  we  dropped 
together  down  the  grade  that  led  to  the  river. 
When  we  got  to  the  bottom  it  was  quite  black, 
and  our  big  reflector  lantern,  that  glared  out  like 
a  searchlight  above  our  heads,  had  been  lit  some 
time.  The  long  bridge,  that  spanned  the  river 
and  the  swamp  that  came  before  it,  had  fallen,  a 
week  or  so  before,  and  a  sort  of  road  had  been 
cut  through  the  swamp  to  the  ford.  It  was  a 
bad  place,  full  of  water  and  sunken  logs  and 
tree  roots.  The  stage  lurched,  one  wheel  sunk 
in  mud  to  the  hub,  the  other  clear  out.  The  lan- 
tern light  flickered  over  the  four  horses,  cau- 
[158] 


BUCK  DU  SPAIN 

tiously  picking  their  steps,  and  the  white-barked 
alders  seemed  to  lean  into  the  circle  of  its  light 
with  a  sort  of  ghastly  eagerness. 

The  driver  had  just  said,  "We're  over  the 
worst  of  it,"  when  a  man  on  horseback,  with  a 
black  mask  over  his  face,  and  a  revolver  held  high 
came  into  the  light. 

"Hands  up,"  he  cried,  and  sent  a  shot  over 
our  heads.  The  Jew  drummer  inside  the  stage 
gave  a  thick,  cracked  scream.  The  Wells  Fargo 
man,  all  in  one  moment,  got  me  crushed  down  in 
the  boot  among  the  mail  bags,  and  fired  two  shots. 
There  was  an  answering  shot,  and  the  rattle  of 
broken  glass  from  the  lantern.  Then  it  was  dark, 
and  I  could  hear  the  driver  and  the  Wells  Fargo 
man  get  out." 

"I  guess  you've  done  for  him,"  said  the  driver. 
They  splashed  in  water,  and  stumbled  on  logs. 
I  sat  up.  They  had  stopped,  and  were  lighting 
matches.  Then  I  heard  them  coming  back  again, 
but  slowly.  They  stopped  when  they  got  to  the 
lead  horses,  and  asked  for  a  light.  Up  to  now 
the  men  inside  the  stage  had  been  as  quiet  as  I. 

"Is  it  safe  ?  "  asked  the  Jew  drummer. 

"He's  dead,  I  guess,"  said  the  Wells  Fargo 
man.  So  the  drummer  got  out  and  stumbled  up 
to  them,  with  a  little  electric  pocket  lamp. 

"He's  alive,"  said  the  driver,  "but  he  won't  be 
long,  I  guess,"  and  then,  his  voice  going  up  an 
octave,  "If  it  ain't  Buck  Du  Spain." 
[159] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

They  laid  him  flat  on  a  broad  log,  that  sloped 
well  out  of  the  swamp.  I  sat  above  him,  and 
held  his  black  head  in  my  lap.  Then  the  driver 
took  the  stage  on,  to  get  help.  The  drummer, 
the  Wells  Fargo  man  and  I  stayed  with  Buck. 

It  was  very  quiet  in  the  bottom  of  the  canyon, 
for  none  of  us  spoke,  only  now  and  then  we'd 
catch  the  faint  wash  of  the  river.  It  was  very 
dark,  too,  for  the  pocket  lamp  had  given  out,  and 
all  the  matches  were  burnt.  The  silence  and 
dark  seemed  to  combine  into  a  palpable,  dense 
thing,  that  held  us  each  fast  in  his  place,  beyond 
the  possibility  of  movement. 

There  came  a  time — I  don't  know  if  for  long — 
that  I  could  no  longer  feel  the  head  that  had  been 
heavy  on  my  knees,  when  it  seemed  to  me,  along 
that  narrow  swamp,  there  went  a  procession  of 
all  that  was  sad  and  lost,  going  with  all  mournful 
and  dreadful  noises. 

"Gott,  it's  cold ! "  said  the  Jew  drummer.  I, 
remembering  the  quiet  head,  laid  my  hand,  ever 
so  lightly,  across  its  lips.  But  no  breath  went 
over  them. 


[160] 


Bernice,  Patrice  and  Clarice 


ought  to  apologize  to  her,  and  to 
me,  too.  You  ought  to  make  it  up  to 
her,  you  Dig  !  Dig  !  Old  Saw-bones  ! 
Why  can't  you  be  obliging?  Why  do 
you  want  to  be  an  idiot?"  So  said  Smudge,  and 
bounced  out  of  the  room. 

McFadden  settled  himself  upon  the  lounge  to 
snooze.  It  wasn't  his  fault  if  there  were  more 
girls  than  men.  Why  didn't  they  leave  some 
out  ?  '  It  wasn't  his  fault  if  he  had  to  study  the 
human  bones.  That's  what  he  came  to  college 
for.  The  girl  was  nice  of  course,  but  what  made 
her  giggle?  Why  should  any  sane  person  want 
to  go  to  such  a  silly  affair  anyway?  Life  was 
said  to  be  short,  time  fleeting;  he  at  least  would 
waste  none  of  either. 

There  was  a  haze  in  the  hills,  and  a  warm 

wind  blowing  over  them.      Three  bright  green 

parasols  fluttered  along,  with  three  big  fresh- 

man  histories   and  three   sweet   coeds   bobbing 

[161] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

along  under  them.  The  girls'  thin  dresses  swirled 
and  floated  in  the  breeze,  their  flying  hair  made 
halos  round  their  heads,  till  parasols,  girls,  hills 
and  haze  all  seemed  mystically  blended  parts  of 
the  same  warm  summer  day.  They  sank  down 
beneath  an  oak,  where  the  thistles  were  rattling 
in  the  dry  grass,  and  for  a  time  a  rustling  of 
pages  was  joined  with  the  rustling  of  the  oak 
leaves  overhead. 

Then,  "Oh  Bernice!  Hello  Patrice,"  cajoled 
a  maid  with  a  camera  slung  over  her  shoulder. 
"Haven't  we  worked  enough?  This  is  so  slow 
(plaintively)"  She  heaved  a  soft  sigh  which  the 
others  echoed  sympathetically  as  they  shoved 
away  their  books. 

"We  shall  have  to  stir  up  some  excitement," 
said  Bernice.  "Poor  Clarice  is  pining  away." 

"I  have  it!"  cried  Patrice  with  glee.,  "We'll 
sit  on  the  fence,  put  the  camera  in  that  crotch, 
and  ask  the  first  person  who  comes  along  to  take 
our  pictures!" 

"And  we'll  take  an  oath  by  fire,  air  and  water," 
added  Clarice,  "to  ask  the  very  first  person." 

"We'll  draw  straws  to  decide  who  is  to  do  the 
asking,"  said  Bernice. 

The  arrangements  were  soon  completed. 
Patrice  selected  three  dry  clover  stems,  "for 
luck,"  she  said.  The  lot  fell  to  Bernice.  With 
much  mirth  they  seated  themselves  upon  the  top 
rail  of  the  fence  to  wait.  The  breeze  grew 
[162] 


BERNICE,  PATRICE  AND  CLARICE 

stronger,  till  the  leaves  of  the  books  lying  open 
beneath  the  oak  began  to  turn ;  turned  faster  and 
faster  as  though  in  a  panic  at  their  owner's  de- 
sertion; then,  as  the  laughter  grew  still  lighter 
and  more  frivolous,  the  books  themselves  flopped 
completely  over  in  disgust.  And  now  a  strange 
figure  appeared,  coming  out  of  the  haze  over 
the  brow  of  the  hill. 

It  was  that  of  a  tall  man  leaning  forward. 
Though  he  came  with  the  long  stride  of  a  runner, 
his  pace  seemed  slower  than  a  walk.  His  build 
and  dress  betokened  the  athlete.  As  he  drew 
nearer  he  was  seen  to  stagger  occasionally,  sweat, 
trickling  through  the  hair  matted  on  his  fore- 
head, dripped  from  his  nose  and  chin ;  his  breath 
came  in  gasps,  yet,  in  the  firm  set  of  his  jaw 
and  the  fire  of  his  eye,  there  was  no  suggestion  of 
yielding  to  fatigue.  The  girls  gazed  in  won- 
der. Then  Bernice,  shoved  forward  by  Patrice 
and  Clarice,  accosted  him.  "I  beg  your  pardon," 
she  said,  coyly,  "but  would  you  be  so  kind  as 
to  pinch  the  bulb?"  He  turned  one  look  upon 
them  of  infinite  pity  and  contempt,  then  set  his 
face  forward  and  passed  on.  "Isn't  he  horrid !" 
said  Bernice. 

Once  more  the  dainty  butterflies  settled  upon 
the  fence.  "You're  next  Patrice,"  chimed  the 
other  two.  Their  parasols  bobbed  and  dipped  in 
the  breeze  like  a  cluster  of  toy  balloons.  They 
had  hardly  spoken  when  a  second  figure  appeared 
[163] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

at  the  brow  of  the  hill.  "There's  another  of 
them!"  cried  the  girls. 

He,  too,  came  at  a  weary  run;  he,  too,  stag- 
gered and  sweated  and  gasped.  He  seemed  not 
quite  so  tall  as  the  other,  nor  so  firm  of  face, 
but  he  was  equally  intent  upon  his  onward  course. 
Patrice  jumped  down  and  stood  directly  in  his 
path.  "If  you  please  we  would  like  you — " 

Admiration  and  regret  appeared  in  his  face. 
"Love  to,  if  I  had  the  time,"  he  panted,  then 
dodged  her  and  passed  upon  his  slow  and  toil- 
some way,  with  apologetic  glances  backward 
which  considerably  retarded  even  that  pace. 

"Did  you  ever !"  said  Patrice. 

The  girls  now  held  an  animated  discussion  as 
to  who  these  creatures  were,  and  what  such  con- 
duct might  mean.  With  mocking  laughter  and 
grimaces  they  repaid  the  slights  which  they  felt 
had  been  put  upon  their  charms.  The  merriment 
was  at  its  height  when  a  third  athlete  appeared. 
Clarice,  seizing  the  camera  from  its  crotch,  ran 
towards  him,  followed  by  the  other  two,  crying 
as  coquettishly  as  she  might,  "Please  take  our 
pictures,  Mister,  do." 

Without  pausing  he  reached  for  the  camera. 
"I'm  rather  (gasp)  in  a  hurry,"  he  managed  to 
say,  "but  if  (gasp)  you  will  run  ahead  and  pose, 
I  think  (gasp)  I  can  accommodate  you."  The 
girls  in  delight  flitted  around  and  ahead  of  him, 
while  he,  still  running,  adjusted  the  camera,  their 
[164] 


BERNICE,  PATRICE  AND  CLARICE 

parasols  dancing,  their  bright  hair  tossing,  their 
dresses  fluttering  in  the  breeze.  "Can't  stop,'* 
he  explained  when  the  camera  had  snapped  (the 
necessities  of  photography  had  somewhat  slack- 
ened his  speed),  "runnin'  a  Marathon." 

"How  splendid!"  cried  they  all  running  along 
beside  him. 

"We  hope  you'll  win,"  said  Bernice. 

"We  hope  we  haven't  hindered  you,"  said 
Patrice. 

"Can't  we  help  you,"  asked  Clarice.  "You 
seem  very  warm,"  she  added  reflectively.  He 
felt  the  grateful  protection  of  her  green  parasol 
held  over  his  head. 

So  they  ran,  but  soon  he  found  himself  run- 
ning very  slowly  indeed,  and  holding  the  para- 
sol. Bernice  and  Patrice  had  turned  aside  to 
pick  wild  flowers,  but  returned  just  as  they  came 
to  a  wonderfully  clear  brook,  with  fern  and  moss 
covering  its  enticing  banks.  "It  seems  to  me," 
he  murmured  languidly,"  that  since  I'm  so  far 
behind  now,  it's  quite  useless  to  go  on.  Can't 
we  stop  in  this  fine  shade?" 

"Oh  no!"  came  the  dismayed  chorus. 

"It's  an  honor  to  be  even  third  in  a  Marathon." 

"If  you  stop  now  you'll  be  nothing." 

"Remember  the  race  of  the  hare  and  the  tor- 
toise." In  her  anxiety  lest  he  should  stop,  Clarice 
even  seized  his  elbow  and  hurried  him  forward. 

Somewhat  revived  by  their  encouragement,  he 
[165] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

moved  along  at  a  slightly  faster  pace,  the  girls 
beguiling  the  way  by  pulling  the  petals  from 
buttercups.  "He  loves  me,  he  loves  me  not," 
they  chanted  merrily.  It  amused  them  all  to 
notice  that  whereas  he  seemed  by  the  fair  flower 
oracles  sometimes  to  love  Bernice  and  Patrice, 
and  sometimes  not,  to  Clarice  he  was  entirely 
true. 

The  way  now  led  between  tall  trees,  whose  in- 
terlocking branches  creaked  and  moaned  as  the 
wind  wrestled  with  them.  The  path  here  joined 
the  main  road  where  the  feet  of  the  runners 
splashed  silently  through  a  flaky  white  dust.  The 
spike-marked  tracks  of  the  first  and  second  run- 
ners led  away  before  them.  "Why  did  this  one 
zigzag  so,"  asked  Clarice  presently,  noticing  that 
her  companion's  eyes  were  grimly  observing  the 
tracks. 

"Because  it  is  ordained,"  he  said,  "that  I  shall 
be  second."  There,  where  the  road  turned  sharp- 
ly at  the  foot  of  a  slope,  face  downward  in  the 
dust,  lay  the  first  athlete.  With  startled  cries  the 
girls  rushed  to  him.  They  bathed  his  face,  they 
chafed  his  hands,  they  tried  every  art  known  to 
them  to  restore  him — all  without  success.  By 
kindly  words  and  offices  they  made  amends  for 
their  past  derision.  "Poor  fellow,"  said  Clarice, 
her  eyes  full  of  tears.  "He  was  so  fine ;  he  might 
have  done  so  much." 

As  they  could  do  no  more,  they  left  their  flow- 
[1661 


BERNICE,  PATRICE  AND  CLARICE 

ers  by  him  and  passed  on,  Clarice  sobbing 
piteously.  The  third  athlete  put  his  arm  about 
her  shoulders,  where  her  hair  was  now  falling  in 
soft  ripples,  and  tried  to  comfort  her.  "I  be- 
lieve," he  said,  making  a  desperate  effort  to  recall 
some  of  his  Greek  history,  "that  in  Greece  run- 
ners often  died  in  the  Marathon.  Why  usually 
(with  animation)  when  a  runner  falls  in  a  race 
the  others  pay  not  the  slightest  attention  to  him." 

"You're  not  sorry  we  stopped?"  said  Clarice 
reproachfully. 

"No  indeed,"  he  protested. 

"You  ought  always  to  stop,"  she  asserted. 

"On  reflection,  it  might  be  better  if  there  were 
a  general  rule  to  that  effect,"  he  acquiesced, 
solemnly,  looking  into  her  shining  eyes. 

Then,  as  they  hurried  forward,  they  heard  a 
voice  from  the  shade  at  the  roadside,  calling  a 
feeble,  "Good  bye!  Good  luck!" 

"Why,  there's  that  second  one,"  exclaimed 
Patrice.  They  crowded  around,  offering  him 
water  from  their  hands  and  fanning  him  with 
trilium  leaves.  When  his  condition  seemed  im- 
proved Clarice  turned  to  the  third  athlete. 

"You  must  go  on,"  she  said.  "You  might 
even  break  the  record  (looking  at  a  dainty  watch 
that  seemed  all  crystal).  Now  that  you're  rested 
we  would  only  hinder  you." 

"Alone?  Leave  you?  What  for?  I  can't,"  he 
said,  suddenly  realizing  his  dependence  upon  her. 
[167] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

"Then  let  the  others  stay  to  start  this  poor 
fellow  along.  I  will  cut  across  the  hills." 

He  darted  forward  with  a  magnificent  spurt. 
The  wind  which  had  increased  to  a  gale,  carried 
him  half  a  mile  at  a  stride.  McFadden,  in  aston- 
ishment at  such  progress,  sat  straight  up,  to  find 
the  window  curtains  streaming  over  him  in  the 
wind.  There  was  Smudge  dressing  as  usual  to 
go  out. 

"Had  the  deuce  of  a  dream,"  volunteered  Mc- 
Fadden. 

Silence  from  Smudge. 

"Dreamed  I  ran  a  Marathon  with  two  other 
fellows." 

Sniff. 

"Dreamed  I  was  first  for  nine  miles." 

Snort. 

"And  that  I  died  in  the  tenth." 

"Hoo-ray!" 

Then,  after  a  pause,  in  a  manner  distinctly 
conciliatory,  "What  did  you  say  that  Freshie's 
name  was?  Clarice?" 

"Eloise,  Gump!" 

"Well  if  you  will  lend  me  a  clean  paste-board, 
and  smooth  the  way  for  me,  I  believe  I'll  ask  her 
to  go  to  the  Freshie  Glee." 


[168] 


Billy -Too 


had  got  to  Billy  Burk  that  the 
Best- Yet  Mining  Company  was  look- 

in£  *or  t*16  man  w^°  had  salted  its 
new  group  of  claims,  and  Billy  was 
at  the  little  stick-an'-mud  ranch  house  getting 
ready  for  Mexico.  His  wife,  Sophrony,  hushed 
the  baby  in  the  doorway,  where  she  could  watch 
the  road  and  Billy.  His  bag  and  gun  were  ready 
by  the  back  door,  and  Billy  was  on  his  knees 
running  his  thin  deft  fingers  along  the  edges  of 
the  "two-ply."  Sophrony  glanced  at  him  in- 
differently. 

"I  ain't  coming  back,"  said  Billy.  He  stood  up 
and  looked  about  the  room,  his  lax  mouth  pursed 
in  speculation.  "There  are  too  many  fellows 
around  here  besides  the  Best- Yets  that  can't  take 
a  joke,  and  this  may  start  them  moving  in  my 
direction." 

"Where  shall  we  come  to — if  I  can  rent  the 
ranch?"  Sophrony  set  her  mind  against  any 
[169] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

suggestion  to  sell.  She  had  worked  every  inch  of 
that  ranch — she  had  got  to  keep  it  for  a  home 
for  Billy-too.  There  was  sure  to  be  a  "some- 
time" when  they  could  come  back. 

But  Billy  did  not  suggest  selling.  "You  can't 
rent  the  place,"  said  Billy;  "an'  I  ain't  coming 
back."  He  turned  over  the  mattress  and  felt 
along  the  slat-rests.  "I'm  a-going  to  keep 
a-going  till  I  find  a  country  where  the  inhabitants 
have  a  sense  of  humor.  It's  a  great  virtue, 
Throny." 

But  Sophrony  was  quite  sure  she  could  rent 
the  ranch. 

"When  shall  we  follow  you?"  she  said.  She 
knew  she  would  follow  Billy.  He  had  found 
humor  in  salting  mines  before. 

"Mexico's  a  hard  place  for  women — so's  the 
country  I'm  looking  for,"  he  said  with  a  leer 
across  at  her.  He  pulled  aside  a  curtain  tacked 
against  the  wall  and  began  to  feel  about  among 
the  clothes  beneath  it. 

"Am  I  hot  or  cold,  Throny?" 

Sophrony  drew  the  child  close  against  her 
breast  and  looked  out  into  the  sunshine  with  fierce 
unseeing  eyes.  The  child  complained  a  little 
peevishly. 

"Hush-ye,  hush-ye,  my  little  pet-ye,"  she 
crooned,  and  Billy  whined  suddenly: 

"Can't  you  put  him  down  and  get  me  some 
grub — you're  always  lugging  'im." 
[170] 


BILLY-TOO 

"He's  teething  and  he  can't  bear  it  out  of 
my  arms,"  said  Sophrony;  but  she  put  Billy-too 
on  the  bed  under  the  mosquito-netting  and  turned 
to  the  stove.  She  shot  a  glance  at  Billy  and 
her  shoulders  stiffened  for  he  was  on  his  knees 
again,  fumbling  among  the  old  shoes. 

"My  mother  said  I  cried  an  awful  lot  when 
I  was  a  kid — thought  I  was  going  to  be  melan- 
choly. He'll  be  just  like  me,  Billy-too  will,"  said 
Billy. 

"He  won't!"  cried  Sophrony.  "I'll  pray  and 
pray — and  I'll  work  at  him  till  he  can't  be  like 
you. 

Billy  squatted  back  and  laughed. 

"Well  I  won't  work,  Sophrony,  but  I'll  pray — 
I'll  pray  Billy-too  '11  be  just  like  me.  Awh, 
Sophrony,  it  makes  me  melancholy  now — you'll 
have  the  dear  child,  but  I'm  giving  up  all." 

"You'll  be  giving  up  a  long  spell  of  three 
easy  meals  a  day — if  they  don't  catch  you  this 
time,"  said  Sophrony.  She  eyed  him  sharply 
across  the  frying-pan. 

"Well — they  ain't — a-going — to  catch  me," 
said  Billy.  He  was  feeling  in  the  toe  of  an  old 
felt  slipper  of  'Phrony's.  Her  tense  shoulders 
relaxed  and  she  turned  her  back  on  him. 

"It's  an  awful  thing  to  be  separated  from  a 
loving  wife  and  child,"  sniffled  Billy  with  satis- 
faction. He  dropped  the  gold  pieces  into  his 
[171] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

pocket  one  by  one  so  she  counted  off  each  click. 
"It's  awful,  Sophrony!" 

"Awh  yes,"  said  Sophrony  between  her  teeth, 
"come  an'  eat." 

Sophrony  went  back  to  Billy-too  and  the  open 
door  and  the  road.  She  would  have  given  him 
the  money  if  he  had  had  nothing,  but  there  was 
his  share  from  the  salted  claims — she  knew  he 
had  that.  He  only  took  this  to  make  her  squirm ! 
She  knew  just  how  he  looked  behind  her, 
slouched  over  the  table  with  his  slanting  eyes, 
so  close  to  his  nose,  shifting  over  everything  as 
he  ate.  She  knew  there  was  malicious  glee  in 
them  now.  She  knew  they  leered  at  her  where 
she  stood.  Sophrony  held  Billy-too  from  her  and 
looked  hard  at  his  blinking  eyes.  They  certainly 
slanted  awfully ;  but  maybe  he  would  get  over  it 
— maybe  he  was  only  a  little  cross-eyed  after  all 
— most  babies  were — a  little.  If  she  only  had  a 
chance  with  him  without — she  thrilled  suddenly 
and  caught  the  child  to  her. 

"Hush-ye — hush-ye,  my  little  pet-ye." 

"There's  two  men  turned  in  at  the  lower  forty, 
Bill,"  she  said. 

"Guess  that's  my  cue,"  said  Billy.  He  caught 
up  his  bag  and  gun  and  went  out  to  the  back 
door.  Sophrony  cleared  the  dishes  from  the 
table  with  a  swoop  and  followed  him,  Billy-too  on 
her  arm. 

"I've  got  the  horse  in  the  willows,"  he  said. 
[172] 


BILLY- TOO 

"I'll  be  across  the  line  in  two  hours — don't  you 
show  uneasy,  Sophrony,  just  keep  'em  awhile  till 
I  get  a  start." 

"You  ain't  coming  back?"  said  Sophrony, 
breathless. 

"No,  I'm  giving  up  everything,"  sighed  Billy, 
a-straddle  the  fence.  "Kiss  me  good-bye, 
Sophrony." 

Sophrony  submitted  her  face  to  him. 

"And  I  ain't  to  come  with  Billy-too?" 

"No — I  can't  ask  it — you  bring  up  the  kid 
grand,  Sophrony — to  be  proud  of  me."  Billy's 
sense  of  humor  was  delaying  him. 

He  loped  across  the  short  stretch  of  field  to  the 
willows,  and  she  saw  his  hat  bob  about  where  the 
horse  was  tied.  When  he  had  mounted  his  face 
was  visible  in  an  open  space  among  the  leaves — 
framed  there  like  a  mocking  gargoyle.  But  he 
was  not  leering  at  her;  the  slant  eyes  were  on 
the  two  men  jogging  up  the  road  by  the  lower 
forty.  He  disappeared  and  Sophrony  hugged  the 
child  to  her  breast  in  a  rapture  of  pain  and 
hope.  She  dropped  to  the  ground  by  the  fence 
and  rocked  and  cried  over  him : 

"I  will  make  you  a  good  man — I  will  I  say!" 
and  she  broke  into  dry  sobs.  Billy-too  struggled 
in  her  arms  and  cried  peevishly. 

"Hush-ye— hush-ye,  my  little  pet-ye!"  She 
tossed  him  up  and  burrowed  her  head  in  his 
little  squirming  body,  and  he  laughed  and  caught 
[173] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

at  her  hair  and  gurgled  happily.  Sophrony 
was  happy,  too.  "I  ain't  played  with  him 
enough — the  love — and  he  just  needs  it.  How 
could  I?  But  now — now — "  Suddenly  she  re- 
membered the  two  men.  She  ran  about  to  the 
front  of  the  house  and  shaded  her  eyes  down 
the  road.  They  were  at  the  bars  already  and  one 
had  got  off  his  horse  and  was  letting  them  down. 
She  had  never  seen  him;  he  had  big  black 
mustaches  and  walked  as  though  he  had  on  new 
boots.  Sophrony  guessed  the  other  man  was 
the  young  constable.  He  looked  toward  the 
house  all  the  time  and  the  other  man  looked  about 
the  fields.  Sophrony  wondered  if  they  each  had 
to  watch  out  and  choose  where  they  would  keep 
an  eye.  She  wondered,  too,  if  it  seemed  funny  to 
them. 

When  the  constable  had  ridden  through  the 
man  who  had  let  down  the  bars  started  on,  lead- 
ing his  horse. 

"Put  up  those  bars!'  called  Sophrony.  Both 
men  stopped;  they  spoke  together  and  then 
started  on,  unheading. 

"Put  up  those  bars !"  she  called  again  and  this 
time  she  stepped  lightly  to  the  stoop.  She  felt 
so  free  and  reckless  she  almost  hoped  they  would 
not  put  them  up.  She  would  just  like  to  make 
'em!  But  the  man  afoot  said  something  and 
went  back  and  the  constable  came  up  on  the  road. 
When  he  was  quite  close  Sophrony  smiled  at  him. 
[174] 


BILLY-TOO 

"You'd  had  my  yearling  heifer  in  that  alfalfa 
in  no  time."  Her  voice  was  so  friendly  that  the 
man  smiled,  too. 

"Billy  Burk  live  here,  ma'am?"  he  said;  he 
slipped  his  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head  in  salute. 

"Yes,  but  Billy  isn't  at  home,"  said  Sophrony, 
pleasantly,  "won't  you  get  down  and  sit  awhile? 
It's  awful  hot  in  the  sun."  She  smiled  very  hos- 
pitably and  the  man  got  down. 

"Billy  ain't  here,"  he  said  to  his  companion 
who  had  come  up  and  looked  very  surly.  He  did 
have  on  new  boots.  Sophrony  turned  to  him 
confidingly. 

"My  yearling  heifer  gets  in  the  alfalfa  if  the 
bars  are  down  no  time." 

"Ought  to  have  been  a  gate  there,"  said  the 
man.  "My  name's  Smithson."  But  her  smile 
had  driven  away  his  surliness,  and  he  slipped  his 
hat  to  the  back  of  his  head,  too. 

"I'm  Mrs.  Burk,"  said  Sophrony. 

"When  do  you  look  for  Billy  home?"  asked 
the  constable. 

Sophrony  nestled  her  cheek  against  the  baby's 
moist  head. 

"There's  never  any  telling  about  Billy,"  she 
said  happily,  "I  put  beans  and  ham  and  coffee  on 
the  stove  for  him  half  an  hour  ago.  You  just 
put  your  horses  under  that  shack  and  give  'em 
something  to  eat  from  the  crib,  and  then  you 
come  around  in  the  shade  by  the  back  door  and 
[175] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

I'll  give  you  something  right  out  there  in  the 
cool/' 

The  young  constable  looked  uneasy,  but  the 
man  named  Smithson  said :  "Guess  I  will,"  and 
led  his  horse  away.  He  looked  out  over  the  al- 
falfa fields  approvingly,  and  at  the  neat  fences 
and  trim  stretch  of  well-weeded  garden  patch. 
Sophrony  saw  him  send  a  stone  after  a  squirrel 
that  scurried  from  the  crib  as  he  came  up  and  she 
laughed.  The  young  constable  came  up  on  the 
stoop  and  looked  at  Sophrony  very  kindly. 

"Him  and  me  ain't  here  on  the  same  business 
— I  didn't  tell  him  mine.  Do  you  know  any- 
thing about  Billy?"  he  said. 

"Why,  I  know  all  about  him !"  cried  Sophrony 
with  a  surprised  lift  of  the  brows.  She  felt  the 
color  sweep  up  in  her  face  for  the  man  looked 
at  her  very  keenly.  "What  do  you  want  him 
for?" 

The  man  looked  away  from  her  thrilling  eyes, 
uneasily. 

"Well — we  ain't  on  the  same  business,  him  and 
me.  He's  the  man  that  bought  the  ranch  off'en 
Billy  yesterday,  you  know,  but  I — ".  He  spat 
twice  and  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  mouth  be- 
fore he  looked  at  Sophrony  again,  and  then  he 
put  out  his  hand  toward  her,  aghast.  Her  lips 
hung  apart,  pinched  gray,  her  whole  face  was 
gray,  only  her  eyes  had  color  and  they  were 
[176] 


BILLY-TOO 

flame.  Her  right  hand  mechanically  stroked  the 
baby's  head. 

"Why — why — didn't  you  know?"  he  said,  and 
Sophrony  sucked  in  her  lips  with  a  great  gasp 
of  life.  " 

"That's  the  man,  is  it,"  she  said  slowly.  "I've 
never  seen  him  before.  Smithson?  Yes,  his 
name  was  Smithson." 

"I  didn't  tell  him  my  business,"  said  the  con- 
stable again. 

"What  is  your  business?"  said  Sophrony.  She 
was  not  looking  at  him,  but  at  the  man  unsaddling 
his  horse  under  the  shack. 

"The  Best- Yet  mining  people  sent  me,"  he  said 
miserably,  "and — and  some  other  fellows." 

"You  want  to  look  inside,  don't  you  ?"  she  said 
gently ;  she  spoke  as  though  to  herself.  "There's 
a  loft  above  and  the  ladder's  just  outside  the  back 
door." 

"I'll  just  look  around  a  little,"  he  muttered. 
She  stared  straight  by  him  to  the  man  whose 
name  was  Smithson.  He  had  fed  his  horse  from 
the  crib  and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  his  legs  well  apart  and  looked  about  the  little 
ranch  with  the  keen  satisfaction  of  possession. 
He  began  to  whistle. 

Sophrony  did  not  hear  the  constable  when  he 

came  past  her  through  the  door.     But  life  was  in 

her  face  again  and  her  head  was  flung  up  and 

ready.      Smithson  was  coming  down  now,  still 

[177] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

whistling.  The  constable  got  hurriedly  to  his 
saddle. 

"I  guess  I'll  be  going,"  he  said,  and  he  took 
off  his  hat  without  looking  at  Sophrony.  He 
heard  the  man  snapping  his  fingers  at  Billy-too. 

"Looks  like  Billy,  don't  he?"  he  said,  "only 
Billy  is  awful  full  of  fun." 

"His  mother  said  Billy  cried  an  awful  lot  when 
he  was  a  baby,"  said  Sophrony.  "I  suppose 
you've  brought  me  the  deed  to  sign?" 

II. 

Sophrony  sat  on  the  front  stoop  and  watched 
the  long  road  between  the  corn  fields  and  the 
alfalfa.  That  other  road  had  looked  the  same 
in  the  hot  sunshine  twenty  years  ago,  and  to 
Sophrony  the  day  was  significant  of  that  other 
time.  She  had  been  thinking  about  Billy  and 
watching  for  two  men  riding  up  the  road  to  the 
bars.  The  man  named  Smithson  had  said  she 
ought  to  have  a  gate  at  the  old  place — she  hated 
gates !  Sophrony  eyed  the  stack  and  crib  with  a 
dull  expectancy. 

She  tried  not  to  think  about  Billy,  but  she 
could  not  help  it.  She  used  to  have  long  fierce 
times  of  thinking  about  him.  The  first  time 
Billy-too  had  found  the  money  she  had  saved 
and  laughed  at  her  afterwards,  she  thought  of 
little  else  but  Billy.  She  was  sure  then  that, 
[178] 


BILLY- TOO 

out  there  somewhere,  Billy  was  doing  wickedly; 
praying  against  Billy-too.  She  thought,  fear- 
fully, how  he  would  go  on  with  all  his  cunning 
tricks  against  men  and  then  laugh  to  think  he 
was  tormenting  Sophrony  through  Billy-too — 
Billy-too,  grown  up  to  be  just  like  him.  Soph- 
rony rocked  and  prayed  that  Billy  would  stop 
before  it  was  too  late,  for  Billy-too  had  gone 
into  mining  lately  and  Sophrony  was  numb  with 
the  ache  of  it,  and  her  eyes  were  parched  for  un- 
shed tears.  He  had  not  been  home  to  her  for 
a  few  days  and  Sophrony  took  to  watching  for 
two  men  riding  up  the  road. 

Someone  was  moving  along  the  mesa  trail, 
Sophrony  could  see  them  through  the  bare 
branches  of  the  mesquite.  If  they  were  a-horse- 
back  the  hats  would  show  above.  It  was  one 
man,  and  he  turned  in  from  the  trail  and  slouched 
up  the  road  toward  the  bars.  His  arms  flopped 
loosely  as  he  walked,  and  the  sway  of  his  huddled 
figure  gave  him  the  grotesque  look  of  the  corn- 
stalks to  Sophrony — the  old  ragged,  windblown 
things  that  stood  here  and  there  in  the  fields 
after  the  crop  was  gathered.  It  was  not  Billy- 
too,  for  a  moment  Sophrony  had  thought  it  was. 
She  had  seen  Billy-too  when  he  looked  just  like 
a  cornstalk. 

When  he  got  to  the  bars  the  man  climbed  up 
and  sat  a-straddle  a  moment,  looking  about  the 
place  and  at  her,  and  Sophrony's  hard  hands 
[179] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 


clinched  in  her  lap.  When  he  got  down  and 
started  on  toward  her  she  watched  him  so  in- 
tently that  she  did  not  see  two  men  ride  up  from 
the  trail  and  turn  in  toward  the  house. 

The  man  came  on  up  to  the  stoop  and  dropped 
down  near  Sophrony.  He  braced  his  back  against 
the  door-jamb  and  drew  up  his  knees  and  clasped 
his  arms  about  them.  Then  his  slant  eyes 
shifted  furtively  to  Sophrony. 

"Looks  some  like  the  old  place,"  he  said. 

"I  took  it  up  'cause  the  land  lay  the  same," 
said  Sophrony.  She  knew  he'd  spent  the  whole 
twenty  years  wickedly  against  Billy-too.  She 
looked  away  from  him  and  saw  the  two  men 
already  at  the  bars.  Billy  saw  her  startled 
glance  and  turned,  too. 

"They  ain't  after  me,"  he  said  easily,  but  he 
pulled  his  old  hat  a  little  further  over  his  eyes. 

"No,"  said  Sophrony,  "they  ain't  after  you." 

One  of  the  men  had  got  off  his  horse  and 
was  letting  down  the  bars.  Sophrony  wondered 
if  he  would  put  them  up  again.  She  leaned  for- 
ward breathless,  to  watch.  When  the  second 
man  had  ridden  in  the  other  led  his  horse  through 
and  then  turned  and  put  up  the  bars.  Sophrony 
dumbly  argued  well  from  it.  She  stood  up  to 
greet  the  two  men  and  Billy  shrunk  up  be- 
hind her.  He  looked  asleep,  his  knees  hud- 
dled up  to  his  chin  and  the  old  hat  quite  over 
his  face. 

[180] 


BILLY-TOO 

"Billy  Burk  live  here,  ma'am?"  said  the  man 
on  the  horse. 

"Yes,"  said  Sophrony,  "but  Billy—"  she 
stopped.  "What  do  you  want  him  for?"  she 
said,  with  her  two  hands  crushed  against  her 
breast.  She  could  hear  Billy  breathing  behind 
her. 

The  man  on  the  horse  got  down  and  came  up 
to  the  stoop.  He  was  looking  at  the  huddled 
heap  against  the  door- jamb,  but  he  said  to  Soph- 
rony: 

"It's  a  bad  business  ma'am,  and  you'd  better 
not  have  any  row  about  it — " 

"What  has  he  done?"  said  Sophrony,  softly. 

"There  are  a  plenty  of  things  he's  done,  ma'am, 
but  this  new  mining  company  sent  us.  It's  for 
salting  claims — he's  got  a  big  sum  out  of  them 
and  all  they've  got  is  an  empty  hole  in  the 
ground.  Who — who  is  that  man  there,  ma'am  ?" 

Sophrony's  hands  hung  limp  at  her  sides.  She 
stood  back  from  Billy. 

"He  did  it,"  she  said. 

"He  was  ahead  of  us  on  the  trail — we  thought 
it  was  him,"  said  the  man.  "You'd  better  come 
quietly — " 

Billy  grovelled  at  Sophrony's  feet  and  clutched 
out  at  her. 

"Sophrony,"  he  wailed,  "I  never  prayed  against 
Billy-too — I  never — I  said  it  for  a  joke — I  never 
prayed  against  him."  He  caught  at  her  skirt 
[181] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

and  pulled  nearer  to  her,  but  his  eyes  fell  away 
from  her  thrilling  ones. 

"I  never  prayed  against  him — never,  Soph- 
rony,"  he  begged. 

"He  did  it,"  said  Sophrony. 

The  men  looked  curiously  at  her  where  she 
stood  so  still.  She  never  moved  when  they 
pulled  away  Billy's  hands  and  put  the  hand- 
cuffs on.  They  took  off  their  hats  to  her 
silently,  and  rode  away  with  Billy  between  them. 


[182] 


The  Spotted  Dawg 

X  AIN'T  a'-sayin'  I'm  a'  almanac;  but 
jus'  the  same,  the  very  first  time  I 
clapped  my  lookers  on  the  new  par- 
son, I  knowed  they  was  shore  goin' 
to  be  a  storm  in  that  particular  section  of  the  ter- 
ritory. 

Bud  Hickok  was  responsible  for  the  parson 
comin'.  Bud  tied  down  his  holster  jus'  onct  too 
many.  A  sassy  greaser  from  the  T-Bar  ranch 
called  his  bluff,  an'  pumped  lead  into  his  system 
some.  That  called  for  a  funeral.  Now,  Mrs. 
Bud,  she's  Kansas  City  when  it  conies  to  bein' 
high-toned.  An'  nuthin'  would  do  but  she  must 
have  a  preacher.  So  the  railroad  agent  got 
Williams,  Arizony,  on  his  click-machine,  an'  we 
got  the  parson. 

He  was  a  new  breed,  that  parson,  a  genuwine, 

no-two-alike,  come-one-in-a-box  kind.     He  was 

big  an'  young,  with  no  hair  on  his  face,  an' 

brownish  eyes  that  'peared  to  look  plumb  through 

[183] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

yu,  an'  out  on  the  other  side.  Good-natured,  yu 
know,  but  actin'  as  if  he  meant  ev'ry  word  he 
said;  foolin'  a  little  with  yu,  too,  an'  frien'ly  as 
the  devil.  An'  he  didn't  wear  parson  duds — 
jus'  a  gray  suit;  not  like  us,  yu  savvy,  more  like 
what  the  hotel  clerk  down  to  Albuquerque  wears, 
or  one  of  them  city  fellers  that  comes  here  to  run 
a  game. 

Wai,  the  way  he  talked  over  pore  Bud  was  a 
caution.  Say !  The'  was  no  "Yes,  my  brother," 
or  "No,  my  brother,"  an'  no  "Heaven's  will  be 
done" — nuthin'  like  it!  An'  you'd  'a'  never 
smelt  gun-play.  Mrs.  Bud  nor  the  greaser  that 
done  the  shootin'-up  (he  was  at  the  buryin') 
didn't  hear  no  word  they  could  kick  at,  no  ma'am. 
The  parson  quoted  somethin'  'bout  the  day  you 
die  bein'  a  darned  sight  better  'n  the  day  you 
was  born.  An'  his  hull  razoo  was  so  plumb 
sensible  that  'fore  he  got  done  the  passel  of  us 
was  all  a-feelin',  somehow  or  other,  that  Bud 
Hickok  had  the  drinks  on  us. 

We  planted  Bud  in  city  style.  But  the  parson 
didn't  shassay  back  to  Williams  afterwards.  We'd 
no  more'n  got  our  chaps  on  again,  when  "Hair- 
Oil"  Johnson  blowed  in  from  the  postQffice  acrost 
the  street,  an'  let  it  out  at  the  "Life  Savin'  Sta- 
tion," as  Dutchy  calls  his  thirst-parlor,  that  the 
parson  was  goin'  to  squat  in  Briggs  City  for  a 
spell. 

"Wai,  of  all  the  dog-goned  propositions !"  says 
[184] 


THE  SPOTTED  DAWG 

Bill  Rawson,  mule-skinner  over  to  the  Little 
Rattlesnake  Mine.  "Wat's  he  goin'  to  do  that 
for,  Hair-Oil?" 

"Heerd  we  had  a  polo  team,"  Johnson  answers. 
"Reckon  he's  kinda  loco  on  polo.  Anyway,  he's 
took  my  shack." 

"Boys,"  I  tole  the  crowd  that  was  wettin'  their 
whistles,  "this  preachin'  gent  ain't  none  of  you' 
ev'ryday,  tenderfoot  hell-tooters.  Polo,  hey? 
He's  got  savvy.  Look  a  leedle  oud,  as  Dutchy, 
here,  'd  put  it.  Strikes  me  this  feller  '11  hang 
on  longer  'n  any  other  parson  that  was  ever  in 
these  parts  ropin'  souls." 

Old  Dutch  lay  back  his  ears.  "Better  he  don' 
make  no  trubbles  mit  me,"  he  says. 

Say;  that  was  like  tellin'  your  fortune.  The 
nex'  day  but  one,  right  in  front  of  the  "Station," 
trouble  popped.  It  was  this  a- way: 

The  parson  'd  had  all  his  truck  sent  over  from 
Williams.  In  the  pile  they  was  one  of  them  big, 
spotted  dawgs — keerige  dawgs,  I  think  they  call 
'em.  This  particular  dawg  was  so  spotted  you 
could  'a'  come  blamed  nigh  playin'  checkers  on 
him.  Wai,  Dutchy  had  a  dawg,  too.  It  wasn't 
much  of  anythin'  for  fambly,  I  reckon — just  plain 
purp;  but  it  shore  had  a  fine  set  of  nippers,  an' 
could  jerk  off  the  steerin'-gear  of  a  cow  quicker'n 
grease  lightnin'.  Wai,  the  parson  come  down  to 
the  postoffice,  drivin'  a  two- wheel  thing-um-a-jig, 
all  yalla  and  black.  Betwixt  the  wheels  was 
[185] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

trottin'  his  spotted  dawg.  Of  course,  the  parson 
'd  no  more  'n  stopped,  when  out  comes  that 
ornery  purp  of  Dutchy's.  An'  such  a  set-to  you 
never  seen! 

But  it  was  all  on  one  side,  like  a  jug  han'le, 
an'  the  keerige  dawg  got  the  heavy  en'.  He 
yelped  bloody  murder  an'  tried  to  skedaddle.  The 
other  jus'  hung  on,  an'  bit  sev'ral  of  them  stylish 
spots  clean  offen  him. 

"Sir,"  says  the  parson  to  Dutchy,  when  he  seen 
the  damage,  "call  off  your  beast." 

Dutchy,  he  jus'  grinned.  "Ach"  says  he,  "it 
makes  nicks  aus  if  dey  do  sometinks.  Here  de 
street  iss  not  brivate  broberty." 

At  that,  the  parson  dumb  down  an'  drug  his 
dawg  loose.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  thirst- 
parlor.  "What  a  name  for  a  saloon,"  he  says, 
"in  a  civilized  country!" 

Course,  we  fellers  enjoyed  the  fun,  all  right. 
An'  we  fixed  it  up  together  to  kinda  sic'  the 
Dutchman  on.  We  seen  that  "Life  Savin'  Sta- 
tion" stuck  in  the  parson's  craw,  an'  we  made  out 
to  Dutch  that  like  as  not  he'd  have  to  change  his 
sign. 

Dutch  done  a  jig,  he  was  so  mad.  "For  dot?" 
he  ast,  meanin'  the  parson.  "Nein!  He  iss  not 
cross  mit  my  sign.  He  vut  like  it,  maybe,  if 
I  gif  him  some  viskey  on  tick.  I  bet  you  he 
trinks,  I  bet.  Maype  he  trinks  ret-ink  gocktails, 
like  de  Injuns;  maype  he  trinks  Florita  vater, 
[186] 


THE  SPOTTED  DAWG 

oder  Golone.  Ya !  Ya !  Vunce  I  seen  a  feller 
— I  hat  some  snakes  here  in  algohol — unt  dat 
feller  he  trunk  de  algohol.  Ya!  Unt  de  min- 
ister iss  jus'  so  bat  as  dot." 

Then,  to  show  how  he  liked  us,  Dutchy  set  up 
the  red-eye.  An'  the  nex'  time  the  parson  come 
'long  in  his  cart,  there  was  a  dawg-fight  in  front 
of  that  saloon  that  was  worth  two  bits  for  ad- 
mission. 

Don't  think  the  res'  of  us  was  agin  the  parson. 
We  wasn't.  Fact  is,  we  kinda  liked  him  from 
the  jump.  We  liked  his  riggin';  we  liked  the 
way  he  grabbed  your  paw,  an'  he  was  no  quitter 
when  it  came  to  a  horse.  Say !  but  he  could  ride. 
One  day  when  he  racked  into  the  postoffice,  his 
spur-chains  a-rattlin'  like  a  puncher's,  an'  a  quirt 
in  his  fist,  one  of  the  Lazy-S  boys  rounded  him  up 
against  the  meanest,  low-down  buckin'  propo- 
sition that  ever  wore  the  hide  of  a  bronc'.  But 
the  parson  was  game  from  his  hay  to  his  hoofs. 
He  dumb  into  the  saddle  an'  stayed  there,  an' 
went  a-hikin'  off  acrost  the  mesa,  independent 
as  a  pig  on  ice,  jus'  like  he  was  a-straddlin'  some 
ole  crow-bait! 

So,  when  Sunday  night  come,  an'  he  preached 
in  the  schoolhouse,  he  had  quite  a  bunch  of  us 
corralled  there  to  hear  him.  Blamed  if  he  wasn't 
wearin'  the  same  outfit  as  he  did  week  days.  We 
liked  that.  An'  he  didn't  open  up  by  tellin'  us 
that  we  was  all  branded  an'  earmarked  already 
[187] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

by  the  Ole  Longhorn  Gent.  No,  ma'am.  He 
didn't  mention  everlastin'  fire.  An'  he  didn't 
ramp  an'  pitch  an'  claw  his  hair.  Fac'  is,  he 
didn't  hell-toot ! 

Course  that  spoiled  the  fun  for  us.  But  he 
talked  so  straight,  an'  kinda  easy  an'  hones',  that 
he  got  us  a  listenin'  to  what  he  said. 

Can't  say  we  was  stuck  on  his  tex',  though. 
It  run  like  this,  that  a  smart  man  sees  when  a 
row's  a-comin'  an'  makes  for  the  tall  cat-tails 
till  the  win'  dies  down.  An'  he  went  on  to  say 
that  a  man  oughta  be  humble,  an'  that  if  a  feller 
gives  you  a  lick  on  the  jaw,  w'y  you  oughta  let 
him  give  you  another  to  grow  on.  Think  o' 
that !  It  may  be  O.  K.  for  preachers,  an'  women 
that  ain't  strong  'nough  to  lam  back.  But  fer 
me,  nixey! 

But  that  hand-out  didn't  give  the  parson  no 
black  eye  with  us.  We  knowed  it  was  his  dooty 
t'  talk  that-a-way.  An'  two  or  three  of  the  boys 
got  t'  proposin'  him  for  the  polo  team  real  serious 
— pr'vided,  o'  course,  that  he'd  stan'  for  a  little 
cussin'  when  the  'casion  required.  It  was  a  cinch 
that  he'd  draw  like  a  wet  rawhide. 

Wai,  the  long  an'  short  of  it  is,  he  did.  An' 
Sunday  nights  the  Dutchman  los'  money.  He 
begun  t'  josh  the  boys  'bout  gittin'  churchy.  It 
didn't  do  no  good — the  boys  didn't  give  a  whoop 
for  his  gas,  an'  they  liked  the  parson.  All  Dutchy 
[188] 


THE  SPOTTED  DAWG 

could  do  was  to  sic'  his  purp  on  to  chawin'  spots 
off  that  keerige  dawg. 

But  pritty  soon  he  got  plumb  tired  of  jus'  dawg 
fightin'.  He  prepared  to  turn  hisself  loose.  An' 
he  advertised  a  free  supper  for  the  very  nex' 
Sunday  night.  When  Sunday  night  come,  they 
say  he  had  a  reg'lar  Harvey  lay-out.  You  buy  a 
drink,  an'  you  git  a  stuffed  pickle,  or  a  patty- 
de-foy  grass,  or  a  wedge  of  pie  druv  in  you' 
face. 

No  go.  The  boys  was  on  to  Dutchy.  They 
knowed  he  was  the  stingiest  gezabo  in  them  parts, 
an'  wouldn't  give  away  a  nickel  if  he  didn't 
reckon  on  gittin'  six  bits  back.  So,  more  for 
devilment  'n  anythin'  else,  the  mos'  of  'em  fooled 
him  some — jus'  loped  to  the  schoolhouse. 

The  parson  was  plumb  tickled. 

But  it  didn't  las'.  The  nex'  Sunday,  the  "Life 
Savin'  Station"  had  Pete  Cans  down  from 
Apache  to  deal  a  little  faro.  The  parson  preached 
to  ole  man  Baker  (he's  deef),  the  globe  an'  the 
chart  an'  the  map  of  South  Americky.  An' 
almos'  ev'ry  day  of  the  nex'  week,  seems  like, 
that  purp  of  Dutchy's  everlastin'ly  chawed  the 
parson's.  The  spotted  dawg  couldn't  go  nigh  the 
thirst-parlor  or  anywheres  else.  The  parson  took 
to  fastenin'  him  up.  Then  Dutchy  'd  mosey 
over  towards  Johnson's  shack.  Out  'd  come  Mr. 
Spots.  An'  one,  two,  three,  the  saloon  dawg  'd 
sail  into  him. 

[189] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

Then  a  piece  of  news  got  'round  that  must 
'a'  made  the  parson  madder  'n  a  wet  hen.  Dutchy 
cleaned  the  barrels  outa  his  hind  room  an'  put 
up  a  notice  that  the  nex'  Sunday  night  he'd  give 
a  dance.  To  finish  things,  the  dawgs  had  a  worse 
fight  'n  ever  Friday  mornin'  an'  the  parson's  los' 
two  spots  an'  a'  ear. 

I  seen  a  change  in  the  parson  that  evenin' 
When  he  come  down  to  the  postoffice,  them 
brown  eyes  of  his'n  was  plumb  black,  an'  his 
face  was  redder  'n  Sam  Barnes's.  "Things  is 
goin'  to  happen,"  I  says  to  myself,  "or  I  ain't  no 
judge  of  beef." 

Sunday  night,  o'  course,  you  know  where  the 
boys  went.  But  I  drawed  lots  with  myself  an' 
goes  up  t'  keep  a  bench  warm  at  the  schoolhouse. 
Wai,  from  the  minut  the  exercises  opened  with 
"Yield  Not  to  Temptation,"  I  could  see  the  air 
was  kinda  blue  an'  liftin'  like  it  is  'fore  a  thunder- 
shower.  An'  the  parson's  tex'?  It  was  "Lo,  I 
am  full  of  fury;  I  am  weary  with  holdin'  it  in." 

Wai,  that's  the  kin'  of  preachin'  a  puncher 
likes! 

Monday  was  quiet.  But  Dutchy  was  busy — 
fixin'  up  a  fine  shootin'-gallery  at  the  back  of  the 
"Station."  Tuesday,  somethin'  happened  at  the 
parson's.  Right  off  after  the  mornin'  train  come 
in,  Johnson  druv  down  to  the  depot  an'  got 
somethin'  an'  hurried  it  home.  When  he  come 
[190] 


THE  SPOTTED  DAWG 

into  the  thirst-parlor  about  noon,  we  ast  him  what 
the  parson  was  gittin'.  He  jus'  wunk. 

"I  bet  I  knows,"  says  Dutchy;  "de  preacher 
mans  buys  some  viskey,  alretty." 

Johnson  snickered.  "Wai,"  he  says,  "w'at  I 
took  up  was  in  a  crate,  all  right." 

A  crate !  Say !  we  didn't  like  the  soun'  o'  that, 
we  fellers  that  was  standin'  up  for  the  parson. 

"You  blame  idjits !"  chips  in  Buckshot  Millikin, 
him  that  owns  such  a  turrible  big  bunch  of  white 
faces  an'  was  run  out  of  Arizony  for  rustlin' 
sheep,  "w'at  can  y'  expec'  of  a  preacher  that  come 
from  Williams?" 

Reckon  more'n  one  of  us  wondered  if  they 
wasn't  a  darned  good  reason  for  the  parson  not 
wearin'  duds  like  other  religious  gents  an'  for  his 
knowin'  how  to  ride  so  good.  An'  we  was  sore. 
A  cow-punch  '11  swalla  almos'  any  ole  thing, 
long's  it's  right  out  on  the  table.  But  he  shore 
can't  go  a  hippycrit. 

Dutchy  seen  how  we  felt,  an'  he  nearly  bust  his 
sides  a-laughin'.  "Vot  I  tolt  y'?"  he  ast.  But 
pritty  soon  he  begun  to  laugh  on  the  other  side 
of  his  face. 

"If  dot  preacher  goes  to  run  a  bar  against  me," 
he  says,  "py  golly,  I  makes  no  more  moneys ! " 

For  a  minnit,  he  looked  plumb  scairt. 

But  we  was  plumb  disgusted.  The  parson  was 
playin'  us  for  suckers,  we  says  to  each  other. 
He's  been  a  soft-soapin'  us,  a  flimflammin'  us. 
[191] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

He  thinks  we's  as  blind  as  day-ole  kittens.  An' 
the  way  that  Tom-fool  Johnson  hung  'round, 
lookin'  wise,  got  under  our  collar.  After  we'd 
booted  him  outa  the  shebang,  we  all  set  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  stoop,  jus'  sayin'  nuthin',  but 
sawin'  wood. 

We  wasn't  there  more'n  ten  minutes  when  one 
of  the  fellers  jumped  up.  "There  comes  the  par- 
son now,"  he  says. 

Shore  'nough,  there  come  the  parson  in  his 
fancy  two-wheel  turnout  lookin'  as  pert  as  thun- 
der. Gall  ?  Wai,  I  should  smile !  An'  under  his 
cart,  runnin'  between  them  yalla  wheels,  was  his 
spotted  dawg. 

Buckshot  yells  in  to  Dutchy.  "Where's  your 
purp,  Dutch  ?  "  he  ast.  "The  parson's  headed  this 
way." 

Dutchy  was  as  tickled  as  a  kid  with  a  lookin'- 
glass  an'  a  hammer.  He  drops  his  bar  towel  an' 
hauls  out  his  purp. 

"Vatch  me !  "  he  says. 

The  parson  was  a  good  bit  closter,  sittin'  up 
straight's  a  telegraft  pole,  an'  hummin'  to  his- 
self.  He  was  wearin'  one  of  them  caps  with  a 
cowcatcher  behin'  an'  before,  knee  breeches, 
boots,  an'  a  sweater — a  sweater,  mind  yu! 

"Be  a  Mother  Hubbard  nex',"  says  Bill 
Rawson. 

Somehow,  though,  as  the  parson  come  nearer, 
I  didn't  jus'  like  the  way  things  looked.  I  sorta 
[192] 


,     THE  SPOTTED  DAWG 

smelt  somethin'  explodey.  He  was  too  all-fired 
songful  to  be  natural.  An'  his  dawg!  That 
speckled  critter  was  as  different  from  usual  as 
the  parson.  His  good  ear  was  curled  up  way  in, 
an'  he  was  kinda  layin'  clost  to  the  groun'  as  he 
trotted  along — layin'  so  clost  he  was  plumb  bow- 
legged. 

Wai,  the  parson  pulled  up  at  the  postoffice. 
An'  he'd  no  more'n  got  offen  his  seat  when,  first 
rattle  outen  the  box,  them  dogs  mixed. 

Gee  whillikens!  Such  a  mix!  The'  wasn't 
much  of  the  reg'lar  ki-yiin'.  Dutchy's  purp 
yelped  some;  but  the  parson's?  Not  for  him! 
He  jus'  got  a  good  holt,  a  sure-'nough  diamond 
hitch  on  that  thirst-parlor  dawg,  an'  chawed. 
Say !  An'  whilst  he  chawed,  the  dust  riz  up  like 
they  was  one  of  them  big  sand-twisters  goin' 
through  Briggs  City.  All  of  a  suddent,  how  that 
spotted  dawg  could  fight! 

Dutchy  didn't  know  what'd  struck  him.  He 
runs  out.  "Come  hellup"  he  yells  to  the  parson. 

The  parson  shook  his  head.  "This  street  is 
not  my  private  property,"  he  says. 

Then  Dutchy  jumped  in  an'  begun  t'  kick  the 
parson's  dawg  in  the  snoot.  The  parson  walks  up 
an'  stops  Dutchy. 

That  makes  the  Dutchman  turrible  mad.  He 
didn't  have  no  gun  on  him,  so  out  he  jerks  his 
pig-sticker. 

What  happened  nex'  made  our  eyes  plumb 
[193] 


CALIFORNIA  STORY  BOOK 

stick  out.  That  parson  side-stepped,  put  out  a 
han'  an'  a  foot,  an'  with  that  high-falutin'  Jewie- 
Jitsie  you  read  'bout,  tumbled  corn-beef-an'-cab- 
bage  onto  his  back.  Then  he  straddled  him  an' 
slapped  his  face. 

"Lieber!"  screeched  Dutchy. 

"Goin'  t'  have  any  more  Sunday  night 
dances?  "  ast  the  parson.  (Bing,  bang.) 

"Nein!   Nein!" 

"Any  more  (bing,  bang)  free  Sunday  sup- 
pers?" 

"Nein!    No  more!    Hellup!  ' 

"Goin'  to  change  this  (biff,  biff)  saloon's 
name?" 

"Ya!    Ya!    Gott!" 

The  parson  got  up.  "Amen !  "  he  says.  Then 
he  runs  into  the  post-office,  grabs  a  pail  of  water, 
comes  out  again  an'  throws  it  on  the  dawgs. 

The  Dutchman's  purp  was  done  for  already. 
An'  the  other  one  was  tired  'nough  to  quit.  So 
when  the  water  splashed,  Dutchy  got  his  dawg 
by  the  tail,  an'  drug  him  into  the  thirst-parlor. 
But  that  critter  of  the  parson's!  Soon  as  the 
water  teched  him,  them  spots  of  his'n  begun  to 
run.  He  wasn't  the  stylish  keerige  dawg  at  all. 
He  was  a  jimber- jawed  bull! 

The  nex'  Sunday  night  the  schoolhouse  was 

chuck  full.    All  of  us  cow-punchers  was  there, 

an'  Johnson  an'  Buckshot  an  'Rawson  an'  Dutchy 

— yes,  ma'am,  Dutchy,  we  rounded  him  up.    D'  y' 

[194] 


THE  SPOTTED  DAWG 

think  after  such  a  come-off  we  was  goin'  to  let 
that  limburger  run  any  compytition  place  against 
our  parson? 

An'  that  night  the  parson  stan's  up  on  the  plat- 
form smilin',  an'  looks  over  that  cattletown  bunch 
an'  says,  "I  take  for  my  tex'  this  ev'nin',  'An' 
the  calf  an'  the  young  lion  an'  the  fatlin'  shall  lie 
down  in  peace  together.' '' 


[195] 


14  DAY  Liar, 

TO  DESK  PROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 


LD  2lA-60m-3,'65 
(F2336slO)476B 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


